


Best Little Whorehouse in Fillory

by gwendolynflight



Series: Wild West AU [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Come Facial, Deepthroating, Enemas, F/M, Feminization, Historical Inaccuracy, Hooker AU, I did research a lot of this you guys, M/M, Margo is a sweetie, Margo making mistakes but then making it right, Masturbation, Pain, Permanent Injury, Practice Blow Jobs, Practicing BJs on a dildo, Public Hand Jobs, Snakes, Spanking, Waxing, Wild West AU, boys in corsets, corsets, historically accurate waxing, historically accurate whorehouse politics slash financial investments, more tags to be added as things happen, most Eliot pov, penis gag, some Quentin pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-04-26 22:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14412213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolynflight/pseuds/gwendolynflight
Summary: New to the wild west town of Fillory, Quentin Coldwater runs afoul of some men not pleased with his skill at cards, and has to be rescued by the infamous gunslinger Eliot Waugh and the mysterious owner of the local brothel and saloon known only as Margo.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BigBadLittleRed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigBadLittleRed/gifts).



Quentin Coldwater caught a glimpse of Fillory through the window of the stage coach. He gasped, and leaned forward. The woman sitting next to him made a sound. He couldn’t see anything anyway, the stage coach had turned, so he sat back. The coach moved roughly over the ruts in the road, and they all jounced with it. 

Quentin was quivering with a repressed excitement. He’d read about Fillory for years, and now he was almost there. He pulled his leather satchel onto this lap, wanting to touch the paper cover, at least, just for a moment of reassurance. This was it, the start of his new life. Surely in Fillory it would make sense. In Fillory he’d figure out how to be happy.

The coach bumped up a ridge and then they were descending down into the valley. Quentin straightened up, stretching his neck to get a glimpse.

There was the main street, just as Plover had described it: the saloon and whorehouse, the general store, the newspaper office, it was all there, and more besides, he saw a school house, and new buildings under construction. The town was growing. In a way that was a tiny bit of a disappointment; part of him had wanted everything to be just the same as it was in the books. But it had been twenty years. Time couldn’t stand still, he supposed. 

The coach rattled to a halt near the livery, and Quentin climbed down on stiff legs, turning his head this way and that to see all of it, he wanted to see all of it at once. He helped the woman down, and then the man riding shotgun started tossing down bags. Quentin waited until his valise was passed to him, and then walked down the main street. It was the main street of Fillory! He peered into each window he passed, and couldn’t help but smile at everything he was seeing. It was all so amazing! The street itself was crowded with horses and wagons and people, and he was just so excited to see it all.

He found the hotel, a fancy looking building called Loria, and checked in. He had enough money for a few nights, and he had an idea for a way to make more. He’d always been good at magic tricks, card tricks. And there would be gambling in the saloon. He hid his things in his room, but took the satchel with him, and with a light heart skipped over to the Whitespire.

* * *

Eliot Waugh sat in his corner of Margo’s saloon and watched the crowd of miscreants and vermin fight over varying amounts of pussy and gold. The gambling tables were full; Margo’s new faro table was proving the most popular on this hot summer night, and dark-suited men milled with dusty cowboys over the bright green felt, the uniformed dealer keeping order amidst the chaos. Painted girls in bright frocks hung at the edges, bringing drinks and enticing winners toward the stairs. 

Eliot poured himself another whiskey, noting that the bottle had crept toward more empty than full. 

In spite of the full house, he had his table to himself, a small two-top in the corner nearest the kitchen door and the bar. He certainly took up the whole table, his bad leg propped up on the other chair, one of his guns and his hat taking up most of the table top. 

Margo’s Whitespire/Blackspire had been a fine, three-story Victorian when this town was more an imagination than a town. Once word came that the railroad would be going through, settlers, investors, and goldminers had descended like locusts, and transformed this dusty little cattle town into quite the center of travel and commerce – still rough around the edges, but busy and bustling with all kinds of people. 

Eliot despised it, but he had to admit the money was better, and meeting Margo had been a revelation from which he’d never quite recovered. The fine old home had been divided into the two parts of her business – Whitespire, in which he’d set up camp, the gambling and saloon portion of things, and upstairs Blackspire, the whorehouse, where dreams and nightmares alike came true. 

It was still a rough town, and the last sheriff had been murdered after three days on the job. For now, Eliot kept the peace, unofficially. He was the fastest gun in the territories, and at four inches above six feet he stood taller than most, and few men cared to try his long reach. He had black hair that he kept swept back from his lean face, and he tended to dress in black to increase the impression of menace. His boots were black, with silver heels, and his guns were black, with just a bit of silver chasing on the barrels. His mere presence reminded others of the imminence of death.

So while the crowd was rowdy, and loud, men shouting to be heard above the tinkling of the piano and the chattering of the girls, the occasional crash of a dropped glass, the more common curse of a bad loss at one of the tables, Eliot wasn’t terribly worried about actual trouble breaking out. Crowds had a way of staying civil around him.

Margo swept through the kitchen door like a ship at full steam, pausing when she saw him. She was wearing royal blue silk with cream lace ruffles, and while she was short and tiny, her posture made her seem so regal that Eliot had to quash the urge to bow. 

“Everything quiet?” she asked him, eyeing his bottle of whiskey. He was allotted one a night, and the speed at which it was depleted typically told anyone watching his mood and inclination toward company or silence. 

“Safe as houses, darling,” he said charmingly, tipping his glass to her.

She rolled her eyes, but patted his shoulder gently enough. “Keep it that way,” she said, looking uneasy. “There’s a storm rolling in, and you know what that does to people.”

He shifted his knee pointedly. “I’m well aware.” He sighed, took another sip of whiskey, relishing the burn that warmed his chest and belly. “I’ll keep an eye on things, you go take care of business.”

She smirked prettily. “I always do,” she said, and sauntered off.

He didn’t know exactly what her business was. She ran the casino, saloon, and whorehouse with an iron fist, if one encased in a fetching velvet glove, and he could only admire her for that. But he had little head for business, and never followed her explanations when she started discussing financial arrangements, overhead, and things. He just knew that he got paid enough to maintain his lifestyle and a little more, and that was enough for him.

The evening looked to be carrying on as always, growing only a little rowdier as signs of the storm shone through the windows, flickers of lightning, the distant smell of rain brought in through the swinging saloon doors by gusts of cold wind.

But then one of those gusts blew in the most perfect boy Eliot had ever seen.

He was a greenhorn, that was immediately obvious to every shark in the room, his thin frame sporting a dapper gray striped suit and his hair, brown and just long enough to curl fetchingly at the ends, topped by a hat in the bowler style in a complementary shade of gray. He carried a brown leather bag, wore matching brown oxfords on his feet, and his lips curved into a perfect smile as he looked around the dazzling room.

Eliot might have been the only one to notice that last feature, he couldn’t be sure. 

The boy headed straight for the bar and Eliot could hear him ordering a glass of red wine. The bartender, a lean, brown-skinned man called Penny, laughed at him, and said, “We got beer, or whiskey.”

“Beer, then,” the boy said, amiably enough. He took his glass and turned his back to the bar, leaning on it, to look out at the crowded room with a look on his face like he’d found something.

Eliot had seen a lot of greenhorns come through Fillory. Some Englishman had come through a few years back, written some dime novels about the dusty little town. That brought it more people than he ever would’ve thought, idiots wanting to see gunfights and Indians before realizing that reading about horrific violence and experiencing it were two very different things. Some of those greenhorns had fled back East, sobered by their experiences. Some had stayed, planted roots, become part of the town – the bartender, Penny, had been one such. He’d come from some eastern state, Florida maybe, or one of the Carolinas, but had fit in almost seamlessly. Others just died, sacrificing their bodies to their dreams of the West.

Eliot feared this perfect, pretty boy might be one of the last kind, dazzled by things he’d read and not wary enough of the dangers. 

Keeping an eye on the rest of the room, Eliot tracked the boy’s progress as the night wore on. The storm rolled in truly, the wind making the gas lights flicker, and the piano player jangled the keys more loudly to be heard over the noise, men and a few women gambling more boisterously, Margo’s girls flashing their petticoats in an ever more vivid display, distracting anyone trying to pay attention from the growing danger outside. Storms that swept in from the plains could rip roofs off the poorly constructed buildings that made up most of the town, shacks and shitty stores mostly. They were safe inside Whitespire, and most knew it, and drank accordingly.

The boy, for all his shiny newness, seemed to fit in at the tables with a strange ease, moving shyly through the crowd, stuttering and apologizing, but then blossoming as soon as he got cards in his hands. Eliot watched him, marking the dichotomy, finding it … cute. 

The boy traveled from table to table for a while. Eliot kept an eye on him until he settled at the poker tables, and then Eliot’s attention drifted. The room was getting a touch louder; one of the girls shrieked, and Eliot started up, before realizing she was laughing and not calling for help. A small scuffle started in the side room, and Eliot had to break that up – done with a single word and his presence, leaning against the doorjamb and fingering his guns. 

By the time he got back to his table, the boy had vanished.

Eliot scanned the room, a vague worry working its way through his drink-addled mind. He wasn’t drunk, really, but buzzing with good whiskey. The hour was getting late, and part of him thought perhaps the boy had just returned to the hotel and boarding house down the street. 

He settled back to his drinking with a sense of disappointment, of lost possibilities. He should’ve gone up to the bar, offered the boy a real drink, maybe gotten his name.

But he fairly quickly sank back into his usual apathy. The boy would return the next night, or not at all, and in the grander scheme of things it didn’t really matter. That had been his philosophy since the war, and so far it had served him well enough.

The piano player went off shift, and one of the girls took over, the wild one with dark curly hair. The bartender was enamored of her, so drinks service got a little slower, men bellying up to the bar and yelling to be heard. Eliot watched this chaos with a distant sense of amusement, sipping his own whiskey, stretching his leg out and feeling the ache and burn in the joint.

The storm got worse, thunder booming, and the air gusting in through the door became cooler. It was a relief, sweeping some of the oppressive heat from the room. The rain formed a wet semi-circle around the door, and the tables nearest cleared out as the dampness spread. 

The rain got louder, drumming on the roof audible even above the noise of the crowd. Men started to get restless, wanting to leave but not wanting to brave the storm. Eliot started to wonder about the horses hitched outside, and how many would still be there when the rain stopped.

A few men came in out of the rain, banging through the saloon doors and shaking themselves like dogs, splattering water across drier patrons. They received a few jeers, but nothing that Eliot had to oversee. Kady was still playing the piano, a sadder tune now, and the wet men fought through the crowd to the bar and ordered drinks.

From his table, Eliot was close enough to hear them when they started complaining about the ruckus outside. 

“Wasn’t sure I wanted to come in here no more, that kind of this going on,” one of them said.

Eliot groaned, and leveraged himself up out of his seat. “What’s going on outside?” he asked, leaning one elbow on the bar.

The younger of the two turned to him, eyes big. “They was beating on some kid outside. We tried to talk to em, but ...”

Eliot had heard enough. He swung his coat over his shoulders and holstered his second gun before heading for the doors. Pausing for a moment, he regarded the rain unhappily, settled his hat more firmly over his head, and went out into the storm.

The rain was so heavy he couldn't see more than a few feet, the harsh wind blowing it nearly horizontal and blowing the long tail of his duster out behind him. He didn’t see any scuffle, and so put his head down and forged his way around to the alley.

It was there he saw the shadows of three men standing over the greenhorn who’d vanished from inside. He couldn’t make out what they were doing in the rain and the dark. He heard shouted words, and could just make out ‘cheater,’ or ‘cheating.’ 

The boy must’ve had a run of luck at the tables, from cheating or otherwise. A lot of men didn’t like losing, even if it was fair.

“Hey,” he shouted. “Get away from there.”

One of the men looked up, and there was a sudden scuffle, and burst of light and noise, and Eliot had drawn and fired before really thinking about it.

A shriek, a thump audible even over the storm, and the two living men fled down the alley.

Eliot approached the remaining two cautiously, one gun still held at the ready. The man he’d shot was dead, body sprawled face-down. The greenhorn was lying in the mud, badly beaten, and he wasn’t moving. 

Eliot looked up and down the alley. The other two men showed no signs of coming back, and Eliot sighed, holstering his gun. There were also no signs that help would be forthcoming, and he couldn’t leave the boy out in the rain. Kneeling down in the thick mud, he gathered the boy up in his arms and stood stiffly. The boy’s thin frame was surprisingly light, and he moaned pitifully but didn’t wake at the movement. 

Eliot looked down, and noticed that the boy’s leather satchel had been upended in the mud; the fool greenhorn had been carrying books, apparently, though they were ruined now, pages soaked through and spines splintered. Eliot got the strap of the bag looped around one shoulder and, knowing better than to alarm more of Margo’s customers, carried the whole mess around to Whitespire's back door.

The boy’s bowler hat was left behind, quite forgotten, in the rain.

Eliot shouldered through the sturdy back door, the mud-covered greenhorn limp in his arms, and called for help. Though he kept his voice low, so as not to alert the patrons, it carried, and soon he was surrounded by a few of the girls and the bartender. 

Penny looked at the boy’s limp, muddy form, and frowned. “What did you bring him in here for?”

“He’s hurt,” Eliot snapped.

“So?”

“So Simone, go get ole doc Sawbones; Kady, get some water heating on the stove; and Penny, get the fuck back to work.”

Penny snarled at him, but went. Eliot was mostly easy going, but no one crossed him when he got that determined glint in his eye.

The girls raced about following his orders, Suzanne and Isabelle helping Kady with the water, and Eliot carefully laid the boy’s lax form on the low cot they kept in the kitchen for the cook. The boy sprawled out limply, and in the light Eliot could see that he wasn’t just wet with mud and rain, but blood.

“I think he’s been shot,” he said to no one in particular.

“Oh, poor thing,” Izzy said, carrying over a pan of steaming water. She set it on a stool near the cot, and Eliot sent her to get some clean rags.

The boy’s clothes were soaked through and ruined. Eliot started stripping him down, wrestling with the wet wool. 

The boy’s body emerged wan and thin limbed, his chest narrow and his skin pale. Eliot tried to chafe some warmth back into those slim arms, and the boy moaned.

And Eliot realized the boy’s hands were swollen, the delicate fingers crooked. Like they’d been stomped on. “Jesus,” he said, laying the boy’s arm down carefully. 

They hadn’t marked up the boy’s face much, just a small scrape across one high cheekbone. Eliot admired the fine curve of his brows, the little tilt at the end of his nose, for just a moment. Then he shook himself, cleaned off enough mud to find the bullet wound on the boy’s shoulder, and pressed a rag into it until the doctor arrived. 

Sawbones was half-Blackfoot, and rode so well it was like he became part of the horse. He was also one hell of a doctor, and everyone relaxed a little when he pushed through the back door.

Eliot backed off then and left him to his work. He might be needed out in the saloon. “Come and get me when he’s done,” he told Izzy, and went back out into the rain. 

He reentered through the front. The key to any good cover lies in maintaining the details, and anyone who had noticed him leave should notice him return the same way, unflustered, and unharmed, ready to keep the peace. He went back to his table, shucking his duster and hat, and settled back into drinking as if not worried about a boy in the back room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot gets a chance to talk to the pretty greenhorn, and ends up in the middle of a mystery.

It was nearly an hour later when Izzy finally emerged from the kitchen to touch Eliot’s shoulder. He nodded to her, and moving as if in no hurry followed her into the back room.

Sawbones was leaning over his patient, who was now clean, and bandaged, and awake.

“Hey, there,” Eliot said, looming over the boy on the cot. He didn’t mean to loom, but his height made it inevitable.

“Hi,” the boy said in a small voice, looking up at him with big brown eyes that were squinted with pain. “What, um, happened? The doc didn’t know anything.”

Sawbones shrugged, and finished packing his bag. “You’ll send payment?” he asked, standing.

“Yes, of course,” the boy said, moving on the cot. “My bag …”

“I’ve got this one,” Eliot said, sitting on the edge of the cot.

“A pleasure as always, Colonel,” Sawbones said, and let himself out. 

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said, relaxing into the cot. “I can repay you, I have money in my bag.”

“About that,” Eliot said slowly. “The men who attacked you must have taken your money.”

“Oh,” the boy said, growing paler. “Oh, no, and the books?”

Eliot felt his mouth pull into a rare smile, oddly charmed that the boy seemed more concerned with his books than his money. “I’m afraid they didn’t make it. The rain …”

The boy frowned, seeming more distressed over this than his own wounds. “I see, I. Well.”

“Better the books than your life,” Eliot said, perhaps not as gently as he could.

“Right, yes, of course,” the boy said, shivering lightly. “Were you, I mean, did you save me?”

Eliot tilted his head. “I suppose you could say so. I keep the peace around these parts.”

“Then thank you,” the boy said, mouth moving unhappily. “I swear I’ll repay you, there are some things at the hotel I could sell, maybe, I’m, well, I’ll figure out something.”

“Got any skills?”

“I’m excellent with cards.” The boy tried to flex his fingers, as if in demonstration, then flinched. He looked down at his bandaged hands, and his face fell. “Well, I was.”

“Hey, you’ll heal,” Eliot said, his tone uncharacteristically optimistic. “Listen, what’s your name?”

“Oh,” the boy said, distracted from his dark thoughts by the question. “Quentin. Quentin Coldwater.”

“Eliot Waugh,” Eliot said, and offered his hand without thinking.

Quentin shook it gingerly with his bandaged fingers, and Eliot found himself charmed all over again. “Why did the doctor call you Colonel?” he asked.

Eliot’s expression fell. “I was a Colonel for the Union. In the war.”

“Oh, wow,” Quentin said, looking impressed. 

Eliot felt as if a hand held his heart, and in that moment squeezed. He stood abruptly.

Whatever else he might have said would remain unvoiced, as Margo at that moment slammed open the kitchen door.

“What the hell is going on, Eliot,” she asked, looking at him, and then at the boy on the cot.

Quentin quailed at the sight of her, and Eliot shifted in front of him without realizing it. “Nothing, Bambi, just a customer who got roughed up a little.”

“Is that why there’s a body in my alley?” she asked, voice growing strident.

“Oops,” Eliot said, pulling out some of his charm.

“Oops?” Margo repeated, her eye growing wide. “Oops? That’s the third body I’ve had to dispose of this week and all you can say is oops?”

“I was occupied,” Eliot said, unbothered. 

“With this greenhorn?” she asked, looking at Quentin as if he’d been scraped off someone’s shoe and left on her nicest rug.

Quentin shrank a little, then hissed as the movement jostled his wounds.

“He’s hurt, Bambi, have a heart.”

“You’re paying the doctor?” she asked him, eye narrowing. No one knew how she’d lost her other eye, but she maintained an ever-rotating collection of decorated and sequined eye patches. The one she wore now was royal blue, to match her dress, with silver thread embroidered in a pattern of wheat sheaves glinting in the lamplight. 

“I’m paying the doctor,” he assured her, mentally assessing his bank account. He could just cover the initial visit, but any follow-up care … “Maybe with a small loan?”

She huffed, lips twisting into a reluctant smile. “Only for you, El,” she said, her shoulders dropping a little. She looked at Quentin again, her gaze a touch more generous this time. “Maybe he can work it off.”

“Oh, I, um, do you need another dealer?” Quentin stammered. “Or maybe I could wash dishes?”

On second thought, perhaps her gaze was more speculative. “Not what I had in mind, sugar. You rest up, now,” she said, heading back out the door.

Eliot stared after her, a niggle of concern growing. He shook it off, and tried to give Quentin a reassuring smile. “Yes, you just rest, and recover. We can talk later.”

“Alright,” Quentin said, his voice small. He fell asleep quickly, and Eliot watched him sleep for a few minutes. It was nearing two o’clock in the morning, and he reluctantly left Quentin alone to do one last sweep of the saloon as they closed up for the night, sending drunken men out into a rain that had gentled into a steady thrum. 

He paced the front room until the last man went out the door, grumbling and still fastening his waistband. One of the girls stood at the top of the stairs, glaring after him. Eliot watched the man, a ginger of average height and weight, until he was out of sight. Something about the figure set off alarm bells, but the girl didn’t say anything, just glaring silently, and without a complaint Eliot had no grounds to chase after the guy. 

With the last patron gone, Eliot locked up the big front doors that were flung wide while they were open for business. The swinging saloon doors latched together just inside the locked double doors, and then a curtain covered the lot. Then he went back to his table to watch over the staff while they cleaned up, dealers sorting their takes for the night and tidying their tables, Penny cleaning his bar and taking inventory, the girls tidying up the carpets and curtains, the fine cushioned furniture and the carved tabletops. It was a honed, practiced operation, and they were done and ready for bed by three. 

Eliot gathered up his things and headed back toward the kitchen. Penny stopped him, and said, “What are you doing, man?”

Eliot stared at him flatly. “That’s not your concern.”

Penny looked frustrated for a moment, before shrugging, and saying carelessly, “Never mind, then. I didn’t say nothing.”

Eliot didn’t feel the need to reply, just pushed open the kitchen door.

Quentin wasn’t on the cot.

“What the hell,” he said, stalking forward. The cot was empty, the blankets tossed back and still damp to the touch. “Izzy,” he called, tossing his duster across the cot. “Izzy, where the hell are you?”

She scurried in, wiping her damp hands. “I was cleaning,” she said, “what’s wrong? Why you hollering?”

“Where’s the boy I left in here?” he asked, trying to be polite.

“Miss Margo had us take him upstairs,” she said, shrugging at him. “Said he’d rest better up there.”

“Oh,” Eliot said, wrong-footed by the information. “That was, well, nice of her. Which room?”

“Why, your room,” she told him, and he went up to the third floor with some food and a pot of tea. Quentin had been tucked into his bed, and he was sleeping restlessly, his face pale and sweat beading on his brow.

Eliot opened a window, letting in a cool breeze and a little dampness from the steady rain, and ate his supper while he watched the boy sleep. In the morning he’d go by the hotel, get the boy’s things, straighten out this debt with the doc, and by extension Margo.

His bed was large enough for both of them to rest comfortably, but something in Eliot made him settle in the wingback chair he kept by the window, up under the rafters where he could see the length of the town. Some presentiment or foreboding. He propped his knee up, and fell asleep that way, eyes still on the rain and the quiet town.

* * *

The storm had cleared by morning, and the sun was shining brightly overhead by the time Eliot levered his stiff body out of that wingback chair and limped down for some breakfast. Quentin was still sleeping like a log, so he didn’t feel too worried about leaving him for a spell. 

Callie was in the kitchen serving as cook for the day, frying bacon and baking biscuits in the potbellied stove, her fetching round face red with the heat. The girls mostly took it in turn, unless Margo got in a real chef for special occasions. She jumped up from the cot when he limped into the kitchen and poured him a cup of coffee; he took it with a tip of his hat, and leaned against the wall while he drank the bitter black stuff, waiting for the bacon. 

“Heard you got a fella up there,” Callie said, prodding the bacon in its pan with a long-handled fork. She was cutting him sideways glances, curiosity alive in every line of her body. 

“That right,” Eliot drawled, taking another sip of his coffee. “What else you heard?”

“That he’s awful cute,” she said, smirking at him. Then her expression faltered. “That he’s hurt.”

“That he is,” Eliot acknowledged, leaving it ambiguous as to which piece of gossip he was addressing. He smiled over his cup at her, and she giggled, then handed him a bacon sandwich, the biscuit meltingly flaky, the bacon nice and crisp, as he preferred. “Thanks, darling,” he said, and took his biscuit out into the sunshine.

The town was fairly busy, men and women out shopping, doing business at the store, strolling the short boardwalk that made up the main street of Fillory. The women wore bright colors, hats decorated with lace. A train rolled through the station, its whistle a mournful sound in the distance. Riders and carriages churned up mud in the street, and Eliot walked through it to the hotel, a stately brick building that, like Whitespire, recalled the town’s origins. Its name, Loria, was picked out in fancy letters, and Eliot finished his bacon, dusted his hands, and pushed into the hotel’s dark, cool interior.

Idri was behind the counter, and as he spotted Eliot he smiled and came out to greet him, arms spread wide. “Eliot,” he smiled, hugging him, “what brings you here?”

Eliot returned the hug, and accepted a kiss on the cheek with good grace. Their relationship had been on the dramatic side, but on the whole it had ended well, and they had parted as friendly acquaintances, at the least. “I need to pick up some things for a guest of yours, got himself into a spot of trouble at Whitespire.”

“Oh dear,” Idri said, sounding genuinely concerned. “I hope everything is alright.”

“No lasting damage, we think,” Eliot said. “But he shouldn’t be moved, for a while, and I thought …”

“Why pay for a room he isn’t in,” Idri completed the thought with a rueful laugh. “Fair enough, Eliot Waugh. Come, tell me his name, and I’ll get you the key to his room.”

Eliot followed him to the counter, staying on the customer’s side when Idri went behind it. “Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot said, leaning an elbow on the counter.

“Hm, unusual name,” Idri said, looking through his register. He frowned after a moment. “When did he check in?”

Eliot blinked. “I’m not sure, no more than a few days ago.”

“There is no one in here by that name,” Idri said slowly, running a hand over his shaved head. “Could he have used an assumed name?”

“Perhaps,” Eliot mused, his brows coming together. “He made not mention of it, just said he had some things in his room at the hotel.”

“I’ll ask Ess,” Idri said, snapping his fingers. “The boy is careless, sometimes.”

He went into the back, and Eliot maintained his leaning posture, watching the front parlor while he waited. A few well-dressed patrons were eating lunch, one of the fine meals prepared by the hotel’s full-time chef, Joshua. Eliot thought with longing for a moment of one of those meals, the memory distracting him until one of the guests stood, shaking out his napkin and laying it neatly across his plate, and strode over to the front desk. He was a handsome man in his late forties or early fifties, with silvering hair and a neatly combed beard and mustache. He looked at Eliot leaning against the counter, and nodded to him. 

“Martin Chatwin,” the man said in an amiable voice, holding out one hand. 

Eliot looked at his hand for a moment, before taking it and giving his own name. The man’s grip was firm, his skin soft. Eliot’s own hand was lean, and hard, and calloused, and the difference seemed to explain everything either man needed to know. 

Chatwin took his hand back, and said, “I suppose you’ve been here a good long time.”

He had a British accent, Eliot noticed, and he looked more closely at the man. “What brings you here?” he asked.

“Ah, you’ve divined my secret,” Chatwin said, a jolly tone to his voice. “Indeed, I am not a local.”

Eliot quirked on eyebrow at him, not otherwise answering. 

The man chuffed to himself, as if he’d been caught at something. “My interest lies in local history. Do you know much about the area?”

Eliot shrugged, deepening his lean. “Never cared much for history,” he lied, eyeing Chatwin warily. “Might want to talk to the reverend. Man name of Quinn. He’s something of an amateur historian. His line’s mostly ancient Egyptians, but he might know something.”

“You have my gratitude, young man,” Chatwin said, and left, apparently giving up on waiting for Idri to return. 

Shortly after he’d left, and Eliot was thinking uneasily over the encounter, Idri emerged from the back room, an apologetic look on his face.

“What is it?” Eliot asked.

“Ess says he didn’t check anyone in without putting them in the register,” Idri explained, his brow knitted. 

“You believe him?”

Idri sighed. “He’s a little hot-tempered, but I do not think he would lie.”

Eliot nodded, respecting a father’s belief in his son. “Could we check the rooms? See if anything doesn’t line up?”

“Sure thing, El,” Idri said, clearly just humoring him. He took a selection of keys from the board, and the register, and they went upstairs.

They checked room by room, working together seamlessly. But every room they checked matched a patron on the register, and each room contained belongings that Eliot was certain didn’t belong to the young man he’d left in Whitespire, either women’s clothing, or suits several cuts too large, or evidence of children, which Quentin certainly hadn’t mentioned, or the rooms were simply empty. 

“Is this usual?” Eliot asked, staring around at a room bare of suitcases or suits, registered to one Leticia Wright. 

“Not especially,” Idri said curiously, poking at the mattress. “Usually people rent rooms because they need a place to leave their things.”

“And to sleep, one would presume,” Eliot said dryly.

“Sure,” Idri said, a note of condescension in his voice.

“Well, aside from the mysterious Miss Leticia,” Eliot said, “there appears to be nothing to see here.”

“As Ess said,” Idri said calmly.

Eliot sighed, looked around the room again. “Well, thanks for letting me look, anyway.”

“Anytime,” Idri said, smiling at him in a familiar way.

Eliot edged a little closer. “Are you terribly busy, right now? With the hotel?”

“Not terribly,” Idri drawled, stepping forward. “And we do have this mysteriously empty room.”

Eliot didn’t usually confuse former lover with current, but there was no harm in revisiting a relationship every now and then. He pulled Idri into a kiss, and Idri tumbled them down onto the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin recovers a little, and gets an interesting job offer.

By the time Eliot got back to Whitespire, the saloon was open for business, though sparsely peopled by the town drunk and a couple of cowboys. A few girls were lounging about, mostly to pretty up the place, none of them optimistic of customers so early in the day. Eliot waved to them on his way upstairs, got a few wiggled fingers in return.

He was already saying Quentin’s name when he swept into his room, but stopped short at what he saw.

Margo, sitting on the edge of his bed, talking to Quentin.

He paused by the door. “Everything okay in here?”

Quentin looked pale, and like he was in pain, but nodded.

Margo said, “Everything’s just fine, El,” and smiled. It was a slightly predatory smile, and she stood, touching Eliot’s chest as she walked by. “Talk to you later.”

“Later,” he echoed, waiting until she’d left to dart forward. “Quentin, are you okay?”

“Mmmhmm,” Quentin said, looking up at him. He seemed dazed, and Eliot touched his forehead. It was warm, and a bit damp.

“I think you have a fever.”

“No, I’m okay,” Quentin insisted, trying to sit up. Something in the movement jostled one of his wounds, and he winced, and sank back down.

“Sure,” Eliot said doubtfully, helping him sit up against the pillows, and tucking the blankets back around him. “What did you and Margo talk about?”

“Oh, just,” Quentin said, panting a little. “She offered me a job, once I’m well. And, uh, I accepted.”

“That’s good,” Eliot said absently, pouring a glass of water from his pitcher and mixing in a dropper-full of laudanum. “Here, drink this.”

“Thank you,” Quentin said, accepting the glass and taking a sip. He grimaced at the bitter taste, but drank a little more. He had to grip the glass with the palms of both hands, his splinted fingers splayed out around the glass almost like spider’s legs. Eliot blinked, looked away.

“I, that is.” Eliot paused, straightened his shoulders. “I couldn’t find your things.”

“What?” Quentin sputtered, a few drops of water spilling across his neck and chest.

“There was no record you’d ever been there,” Eliot explained. “I did search the rooms, but I didn’t find anything that seemed like it could be yours.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Quentin said, a flush creeping up his neck. “I had clothes, and books, and there were.” He paused. Darted a nervous glance at Eliot. “A gold pocket watch. Some jewelry, from. My parents.”

Eliot sat back, frowned. “Did you check in under an assumed name? We searched several of the rooms, but perhaps we missed one.”

“No, Quentin Coldwater, that’s my name, that’s the name I signed into the register.”

“At Loria.”

“Yes, at Loria.” Quentin’s mouth slanted into an unhappy line, tears of frustration springing up in his eyes. “I think I must have been robbed.”

Eliot sighed, rubbed his eyes. “Idri, the hotel’s owner, he’s on the level. I don’t think he would’ve done anything like that.”

Quentin chewed on his lower lip, not quite meeting Eliot’s gaze.

“I guess you have no reason to believe me about that,” Eliot realized.

“No!” Quentin said, looking up. “No, it’s just … something must have happened. And I believe you, and maybe the owner is a great man, but.”

“But something happened.” Eliot ran a hand over his neatly coiffed hair.

“And you said you were the law around here …”

“I said I keep the peace,” Eliot corrected him quickly. “In an unofficial capacity.”

“It was my father’s watch,” Quentin said, eyes pleading.

Eliot looked at him, wan and pretty, with soulful brown eyes that creased like a begging puppy’s, and sighed. “I’ll ask around,” he offered, touching Quentin’s arm. “That’s the best I can do.”

“I’ll take it, thank you.” Quentin’s eyes shone up at him trustingly. “Thank you.” As the laudanum started to take effect, he melted back against the pillow, eyes still fixed on Eliot’s. They stayed like that as he fell asleep.

* * *

“You planning to keep him?” Margo asked him later.

Eliot looked at her, slightly startled. “Who?”

She snorted. “You know damn well who. The little broken bird up in your room.”

Eliot avoided her one eye, taking a sip of whiskey as if unconcerned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Margo crossed her arms. “I offered him a job.”

“And he said he accepted. That was very generous, thank you.”

She scowled at him a little. “I offered him a job as one of my girls.”

Eliot froze. “What?”

“He would have made a good dealer,” she said, turning to the window. The sunlight streaming in was thick with dust, and she looked slightly melancholy in its light. “But with his fingers mangled like that, he doesn’t have a lot of other skills.”

“So he has … skills, in that area?” Eliot asked, intrigued.

She snorted. “Not in the least. But anyone can be taught.”

“Well, if it’s what you think is best,” he said, but underneath his stony façade something in his heart disliked this idea. He couldn’t say what, exactly, he disliked about it, but hearing Margo’s words made something small in his breast spark in protest.

He stifled it, as had become his habit since … the war. Mike.

He slammed back the rest of his glass, poured another. Margo gave him a look that he couldn’t decipher, and swanned back out of the room, her skirts whisking up the thick dust on the wooden floors so that it danced in the streaming light. He watched the swirling motes, and tried not the think of anything at all.

* * *

Old doc Sawbones came by for his regular check of the girls a few hours later, and saw to Quentin at the same time, re-bandaging his shoulder and checking that his hands were healing.

Eliot oversaw the visit, watching Quentin’s expression move from pained to dismayed as the mangled digits were revealed. The doc had splinted them well, but the damage seemed to be extensive.

“You’ll need to follow this procedure once they heal,” Sawbones said, passing Quentin a sheet of paper. Quentin looked down at the motions described with words and illustrated with sketches, and nodded, his long hair shifting to cover his face. Sawbones set another vial of laudanum on the bedside table, and left. Quentin didn’t reach for it right away, still staring down at the sheet of paper.

Eliot moved a little closer. “How are you feeling?”

Quentin shrugged, something dampened about him. “I’m okay, I suppose.”

“Margo told me what kind of job she offered you.” Eliot took his hat off, swept a hand over his hair. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Quentin shot him a miserable look. “I don’t have much choice,” he said, staring down at his bandaged hands. They trembled, slightly, and something in Eliot’s heart hurt to see it.

He stifled that, as well.

“She’s good, to her girls,” he said, wanting to reassure Quentin. “If there’s any trouble at all, I’ll be there, and she pays good wages, plus room and board.”

Quentin nodded, something still cramped and small about his posture.

Eliot didn’t know how to fix it, and turned his hat restlessly in his hands. “Well,” he said, putting the hat back on, “you take some more laudanum, get some rest. I’ve got to get back down there before we open.”

Quentin nodded again, sent him a wan smile, and then Eliot forced himself out the door and down the stairs.

This was a Sunday, he realized, taking in the relatively small crowd and slow pace of business. The townspeople tended to behave like folk everywhere, pits of vice most days but pretending to piety on the lord’s day, and consequently Margo’s got a little slower in the hours after a sermon from old Reverend Quinn had reminded everyone of the consequences of a little fun, or sin.

Which was a hoot, Eliot thought. Daniel Quinn was one of the most perverted men in town, going by the gossip the girls passed around, and while his daughter seemed to be a genuinely pious member of the church, the local school teacher, upright and untouched, the reverend himself was a frequent guest at Blackspire, even if he never deigned to approach through Whitespire like the more honest sinners.

The times when Daniel Quinn showed up on a Sunday night were especially funny to Eliot, who had learned long ago of the hypocrisy of church men, and felt little beyond contempt for them, and a sort of pleasure at seeing their faults revealed.

But the reverend didn’t show up on this night, at least not that Eliot saw. He kept to his table in the back corner for most of the night, only checking on the girls a few times, once making the trip up to his room to find Quentin still sleeping off his earlier dose. The saloon was quiet, the gambling at a minimum, the girls bored and idle even as the sun went down. It was a slow day, and Eliot helped close out the bar with a strange sense of relief. What he was relieved about, he couldn’t quite say, but he worked more briskly than usual, helping Penny carry a few crates, and then jogged up the stairs with his usual dinner and pot of tea, heedless of his bad leg.

Quentin was awake, and hurting. Eliot set the food at his small table, and hurried over to help Quentin sit up, hand him a glass of laudanum. Quentin took the drink with shaking hands, holding onto it with both palms pressed to the glass, and gulped it down.

“Are you hungry?” Eliot asked, moving to the plate of food.

“No, thank you,” Quentin said, sinking back under the spell of the laudanum, any light in his eyes dimming.

Feeling a distant sort of disappointment, Eliot watched Quentin’s restless, drug-induced sleep and picked at his food, leg stretched out, until at last he sagged into a broken sleep in the wingback chair under the window.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo comes to Eliot with a mission.

A cool breeze was coming in through Eliot’s open window. Eliot was dozing. His leg was aching, and he turned restlessly in his wingback chair.

A whimper from the bed brought him fully awake.

“No, please,” a small voice said. Eliot turned up the lamp, and its warm glow revealed Quentin’s twisted, shaking form. He’d scrunched up near the headboard, and was crying in his sleep.

Eliot pushed himself up out of the chair and limped to the bed. Quentin was shaking, and Eliot put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he said in a soothing tone of voice, rubbing the boy’s shoulder gently. Quentin’s skin was hot under his hand, even through the loose sleep shirt, and the shirt itself was damp with sweat. “Hey, c’mon.” He shook Quentin’s shoulder a little more firmly, until fragile lids fluttered open and the boy was staring up at him, confused. “You were dreaming,” Eliot explained, “and I think you have a fever.”

Quentin’s mouth opened, closed. His pink tongue swept across his dry lips. Eliot swallowed, feeling a zing of arousal in the pit of his belly. He touched Quentin’s shoulder again. “Do you want some more laudanum?”

Quentin nodded shakily, and took the offered glass in hands that trembled. His grip wasn’t getting any better, the splints preventing any real movement in his healing fingers. He took a few sips, and his eyes hooded as the laudanum took effect. Eliot watched approvingly as the lines of pain melted from the boy’s delicate features, and at last he sank back down. He started to stand, and Quentin’s hand darted out, touching his leg.

“Stay?” Quentin asked, those big brown eyes fix on his.

Eliot knew he should refuse, should go back to his chair and let the boy have the bed. But he couldn’t refuse those pleading eyes, and he sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand through Quentin’s sweat-damp hair until the boy fell back asleep.

Eliot watched him sleep for a time, petting the boy’s soft hair and very carefully not thinking about the future.

* * *

Quentin felt up to coming downstairs the next day. A little before noon, clinging to each other as Eliot’s leg had stiffened in the night and Quentin was still unsteady on his feet, head swimming with a recent glass of laudanum, they tottered down the front stairs.

The saloon had gathered its first customers of the day, men who’d come in for a drink and some cheap lunch, baked beans and Izzy’s good cornbread today, by the smell of it. A few dust-covered cowboys sat at the bar, a white man and two Mexican looking fellows, and a black man in a nice suit had taken a table near the door to the parlor. A few of the girls were sitting around, and they watched Eliot and Quentin move toward Eliot’s usual table.

Quentin didn’t notice the eyes on him as Eliot helped him into a chair. Eliot did, and wondered if news of Quentin’s job offer had spread. He didn’t like to think about that, so he left Quentin to catch his breath at the table while Eliot went back to the kitchen for some food.

Izzy, having baked the cornbread, had left the rest of the kitchen duties to Kady, who was stirring a pot of baked beans with a disgruntled look when Eliot entered. “Can I get two bowls, darling?” Eliot asked her, already cutting two nice-sized pieces of cornbread out of the iron skillet.

“Margo wanted to talk to you,” Kady said, handing over the bowls without another word. She was a loner, hadn’t really made friends with any of the other girls. Eliot thought she and Penny might be sneaking around, which honestly Margo wouldn’t mind as long as it didn’t cut into business. He wasn’t sure, though, so he’d never said anything.

Eliot carried the plates over to his table; when he set them down with a thump, Quentin looked up at him as if startled. Eliot tilted his head. “Everything okay, Coldwater?”

“Yes, um, sorry, I was just.” He looked down, wiggled his hands very slightly.

Eliot frowned. “I’ll be back to help you in a minute,” he said, trying to sound reassuring though the impulse was rusty. “Need to talk to Margo.”

“Margo?” Quentin echoed, and Eliot thought for a moment his voice sounded almost fearful.

“Nothing to worry about, I’ll be right back,” Eliot said, tilting his hat and turning on his heel.

Margo was in the back office. Sitting at her desk, a massive edifice carved in walnut, she was surrounded by stacks of papers and a blue haze of cigar smoke.

“Kady said you wanted to talk,” Eliot said, lowering himself carefully into one of the seats arranged before her desk.

She raised the brow above her remaining eye. “I need an excuse to talk to you, honey?”

“This early? Yeah.”

She smirked, snorted a small laugh. “You got me.” She picked up one of the many pieces of paper in her elegant hand, and passed it over to him. “I need you to ride out and meet a shipment.”

Eliot frowned down at the sheet of paper. “Margo, you know I don’t care to do much riding …” He didn’t like to mention his knee, but he would if he had to.

Her face softened. “I know, Eliot. And I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I had anybody else.” She leaned closer, and lowered her voice. “That shipment? It’s important, okay? I’m opening, we’re opening a bank.”

Eliot froze. Looked up at her. “Are you serious?”

Margo was smiling again, like the cat that had swallowed the canary. “You better believe it.”

“A bank,” Eliot repeated, his voice no more than a whisper. “In Fillory.”

“We’re gonna be a real town, El, just like I said.” She sketched castles in the sky with her hands. “First the general store, the paper, the school. Now a bank.” Her eye was shining. “Eliot, we’re going to be a real town. And it’s this place that’s paying for it.”

Part of Eliot wanted to be excited for her. He looked back down at the sheet of paper that listed the travel details of the gold shipment. “I’ll ride out,” he said, trying to smile for her.

“I knew you would, El, thank you.”

“Would you, hm, watch out for Quentin while I’m gone?”

“Sure thing, honey.” She picked up her cigar, took a small draw from it. “Be safe out there.”

He tipped his hat to her, and limped back to Quentin.

The paper in his hands had become crumpled. He smoothed it flat, folded it over, and tucked it in his pocket before entering the saloon portion of Whitespire.

Quentin was managing a spoon with an awkward grip. Eliot sat across from him, and forced a smile. “See you’re holding up.”

Just then Quentin dropped the spoon, which fell onto his plate with a clatter. Quentin looked at him through the curtain of his hair, chagrined. “Not too well, actually.”

“You’ll get it,” Eliot encouraged, taking a few bites of his own food. “I, well, I need to ride out, shortly.”

Quentin’s eyes widened in question.

“Margo wants me to meet a shipment. It’s routine, nothing to worry about. Just some extra security on the trail.”

“Oh, wow,” Quentin said, and his eyes were shining now like when he’d learned Eliot had been a colonel in the war. That same hero worship. It mostly made Eliot uncomfortable. “Will you have to kill a lot of people?”

Eliot snorted a laugh. “Hopefully not.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what those books of yours said, but life isn’t a constant gunfight out here.”

Quentin only looked a little disappointed at that. “When will you be back?” he asked, trying against to get the spoon into a grip his fingers could manage.

Eliot reached across the table and helped him without thinking. “Maybe a week, maybe two.”

“That long?” Quentin asked.

Eliot fancied the boy sounded like he might miss him. He smiled at Quentin’s lowered head fondly. “I’ll be back soon enough. You just get healthy.”

Quentin returned the smile, the corners of his eyes creasing, and Eliot was struck all over again by how pretty the boy was. He had to catch his breath, and tried to disguise the movement by taking a bite of cornbread. It was moist and buttery, and he held the rest of the square over his mouth while he chewed, as if contemplating another bite.

“They didn’t make it sound like a constant gun fight,” Quentin said, most of his attention on his plate.

“Hm?”

“The books,” he explained, “the Fillory books.”

Eliot felt both his eyebrows go up. “That’s what you were carrying around? Those books by that fraud Plover?”

Quentin frowned. “Fraud?”

Eliot sighed. “Maybe that’s too harsh a word. His depiction of Fillory was, let’s just say, romanticized.”

Quentin mouthed the long word, a bit of disappointment seeping into his gaze. “So it’s not …”

“What?”

Quentin shrugged. “It seemed magical,” he said softly, as if ashamed. “Like a place where anyone could be anything. Where anything could happen. Where a man could start over.”

Eliot felt himself melt a little at that. “Is that what you needed to do? Start over?”

Quentin’s eyes flicked up to meet his just briefly, then fell back to his plate, or some indefinable distance between eyes and plate. “My folks died.”

Eliot thought of Quentin’s insistence on finding his father’s watch, and realized part of him had already known. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“They were good people. But, uh, they didn’t leave me a lot. I was at college.”

“Impressive,” Eliot interjected.

“Well, I had to leave.” Quentin’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Couldn’t pay for another semester. Couldn’t find anyone to give me a loan. So I thought. Come out west. Make my fortune. Force them to let me finish.”

Eliot made a sympathetic face. “Fillory isn’t exactly a gold rush town these days.”

Quentin blushed, ducking his head.

“Wait, cards? You actually planned to make your fortune gambling?”

“I’m, I was, I was very good with my hands.”

“I’ve no doubt.” Eliot grimaced. “Well, you saw what comes of playing cards for high stakes.”

Quentin’s defensiveness collapsed back into despair, his gaze caught by his bandaged hands. “Yeah …”

“Figured you just got lucky. If they’d known you was cheating they might’ve hanged you before I made it outside.”

Quentin went a little pale.

“Plover never talked about that in his damn books,” Eliot said, mopping up the last trace of his beans with the last bite of cornbread. “C’mon, let’s get you back upstairs. I need to pack and get going.”

“Oh, do you mind if I sit down here a little longer?” Quentin asked, his eyes bright. “I want to people watch, if that’s okay.”

Eliot blinked. “Of course it’s okay.” He took off his hat, ran a hand through his dark curls, and resettled the hat. “I’ll pack, and say goodbye before I go.”

Quentin smiled at him shyly, and Eliot hauled himself back up three flights of stairs with that to warm him.

He packed two shirts and some clean underwear in a small valise, threw on his duster, and after a moment of thought tucked a box of ammunition between his spare socks. He kept a reload for each gun on his belt in a bandolier that was both convenient and stylish, but something told him that a little extra couldn’t hurt.

Quentin wasn’t at the small table when Eliot got back downstairs. He looked for the boy for a minute, but daylight was wearing, and he had to get going. He snagged Penny’s arm, told the bartender to let Quentin know that he’d left, and went out to the stable.

He saddled his horse and rode out in the early afternoon. He ought to make the next town before dark, and meet up with the wagon a few days out. It would be a slower return trip, at the pace of the wagon. He already couldn’t wait to get back and check on Quentin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Quentin is healing up, Margo begins his training. First, they need to do something about all that hair.

After Eliot has been gone a few days, and Quentin's injuries had healed a bit, Margo said that they should start his training.

Margo chivvied Quentin into a smaller room filled with a long table, a short tub, and a little potbellied stove that was already glowing with heat.

“What is all this?” he asked timidly.

“We need to get you ready,” she said brightly, guiding him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Ready?”

“My girls are not hairy,” she said, and there was something stern in her voice. “It’s the one thing that sets my place apart from all the others, and the reason we’re so successful that I started four companies already and plan to start several more.”

“Wow,” Quentin said, staring at the table. There was a basin on it, and a large stack of cloths, and there was something in the basin he couldn’t quite identify. “So what … what exactly is this?”

“Sukkar,” she said, picking up the bowl. “You would call it sugar.”

“Okay, what’s it for?”

“Hair removal.” She smiled at him somewhat mysteriously.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t really have to, but I’ll explain some of it. Come on, clothes off.”

He froze, staring at her.

She met his surprised look with a coolly raised brow. “You accepted my job offer, Quentin. You aren’t getting shy now, are you?”

A hot flush went through him, but his fingers moved to pick at the buttons of his shirt. Even though the splints had come off a few days ago, his fingers were still slightly crooked, and not very dexterous.

“Oh, come here,” she said, setting the bowl down and moving to help him with his shirt.

She stood very close, and he looked down at her, feeling his breaths come shorter. She unbuttoned the shirt with her small, clever fingers, and pulled it open, over his shoulders quickly so that his arms were suddenly trapped.

“Hey,” he said, wiggling his shoulders a little.

She looked up at him, smiling that mysterious smile. “Might as well get used to it, Coldwater.”

He shivered at her tone, and she worked the shirt down his arms until the fabric was crumpled at his wrists, holding them to his waist. He was already hard, and he wasn’t sure what to make of this tiny, powerful woman.

It seemed like she’d gotten the reaction she wanted; she smiled, and let the shirt fall to the floor. Then her fingers were working at the button of his trousers.

He went up on his toes, and a startled sound came out of his throat. She laughed, and moved with him, getting the trousers unfastened quickly and stripping them down to his knees. He was blushing down to his belly, almost.

“Step out of these,” she prompted him.

Not knowing what else to do, he did, and she let the trousers fall to the floor with the shirt.

“That’s not good for the fabric,” he protested faintly.

“You won’t need them anymore,” she said. “Come on, off with the underwear, and get up on the table.”

She turned her back then, mercifully, and Quentin pulled his undershirt over his head, and kicked out of his underwear. He approached the table, which was a little lower than waist height. He swallowed, and climbed up onto it.

The wood felt cold beneath his bare skin, and he shivered.

“This is an ancient Persian practice,” Margo said. She was standing by the stove, doing something to the sugar in the dish. “My father was from India,” she explained, “and he learned of this from his travels through the Ottoman Empire.”

It was the most Margo had ever said to him, and he was fascinated. “He was from India?”

“Yes, from a northern village. You wouldn’t have heard of it. He traveled here when he was a young man, and that’s where he met my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“She was from a town near the Mexican border,” Margo said, idly stirring. “Her daddy moved up here for the gold rush. It didn’t pan out for him.”

Quentin squinted at her. “Was that a pun?”

“Anyway,” Margo said repressively. “My parents died when I was younger, but they left me this place. It already had a good reputation, and I’ve been working to build it up ever since.”

“It’s really amazing,” he said. “And you said you have other businesses?”

She finished whatever she was doing at the stove, and approached the table with the bowl held carefully in both hands. “That’s right,” she said, setting the bowl on the edge of the table. “The general store, the livery. This place helped build the church, did you know that?”

Quentin shook his head, feeling bashful again now that she was facing him. He wanted to cover his cock, but he wasn’t sure she’d like that. She’d said not to be shy.

“As much as Preacher Quinn rails against this place, he wouldn’t have a pulpit without us,” Margo said smugly. “The school, too.”

“That’s … amazing,” he said again, not able to think of another word. “Can I ask, um, why?”

“Why a whorehouse would want things like stores and schools?” she asked archly.

He nodded.

“It’s simple,” she said, stirring the sugar in the bowl with a wooden stick. The sugar had melted, and Quentin stared at it, fascinated by the molten shimmer. “We want this to be a town, a real town, with places to shop, and worship, and raise children.” She looked at him then. “I’m building this place. Will you help me?”

He couldn’t look away. “Yeah, of course.”

“Good,” she said, smiling brightly. “Lie back, Q.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, and did. His bare shoulders touched wood, and he shivered again.

“This really shouldn’t hurt,” she said, though her smile was slightly ominous.

He tried to lie still, and she started to spread the sugar paste over his skin. It was warm, not too hot, and felt pleasant as she started on his right thigh and the paste soothed over a faint bruise. He was healing, but most of him was still pretty sore, and as the heat seeped into his skin he relaxed.

She spread a thin layer over his thigh in steady sweeping motions, then set the bowl down.

“Give it a moment to set,” she said.

“So all of your, um, girls do this?”

“Yep, once a week,” she said brightly, then, “Brace yourself,” and yanked the paste off.

All the hair on his upper thigh came with it. Quentin squeaked a little, but it was more shock than pain, really, and she rubbed a hand over his skin, soothing the mild sting.

“There,” she said, something indulgent in her voice. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“No,” he panted, “I guess not.”

“Good girl,” she said, and a sort of warm zing went through him, and then she spread the mixture further down Quentin's thigh. The next few strips were painful, though not too much to bear. Quentin hissed and flinched through them, and appreciated Margo's soothing touch after each section was done. 

Then she did his left shin. 

Fire, she'd lit him on fire, or ripped the skin off, he flailed and a shriek clawed out of his throat. 

“Oh, hush, you big baby,” Margo said, then smirked. “Anyway, screaming isn't likely to draw attention around here.”

Quentin gasped for breath and stared at her fearfully. Her expression softened, and she patted his side. “It's only this bad the first time,” she promised, then started spreading the sugar mix down the side of his calf. 

He tensed all over, but the next strip didn't hurt nearly as badly. He let out a breath, and relaxed a little. She worked that way down his other leg, moving around the table and spreading the mixture on his other thigh, knee, and then the other shin.

He tensed, gritting his teeth and trying to brace himself. Then she ripped upward, and he was on fire and he held in a scream, barely, but tears trickled out of his squeezed shut eyes.

“That's probably the worst of it,” she said sympathetically, before moving back to the stove to mix up more of the sukkar. “The closer the bone is to the surface, the more it seems to sting.”

“Sting?!” Quentin demanded. Margo arched a brow at him, and he subsided, grumbling to himself as she moved upward to his chest. 

The hair, so thick on his lower legs and forearms, was comparatively sparse on his chest. She stripped the little hair there quickly, with economical movements, ignoring his little hisses and flinches as she worked. There was pain, but after the shins everything was muted, and he took deep breaths and tried not to clench his fists, mindful of his healing fingers. 

“You're doing so well,” she cooed, rubbing a soft hand over his raw, stinging skin. Then she lifted one arm above his head. 

“What, uh, what are …”

“Shh,” she said, rubbing the sukkar under his arm. He stared up at her fearfully as the mixture hardened. And then she ripped it away. 

He howled. His whole body flinched, cringed in on itself, curled around the pain. Knees coming up to his chest, back arching up off the table in a spasm of agony.

Margo had already moved around to the other side of the table, and she tapped his legs impatiently. “Come on, Q. One more.”

He uncurled slowly, panting. “I. I'm. I don't know if I can …”

She tilted her head, gave him a slightly strange look. “Do you want some more of your laudanum?”

He thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

She mixed up a glass, leaving the sukkar on the stove to keep warm while he downed the glass. He felt even more awkward, somehow, sitting half-hairless and naked on this hard wooden table. 

The laudanum was bitter, but its warmth spread through him quickly, from the pit of his stomach and moving outward. After a few minutes, he was looser and went easily when she pushed him back.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Floaty,” he murmured.

“El was right, you are adorable,” she said, and lifted his other arm above his head. 

He waited for the pain.

And she ripped it away, and it hurt, but it was a distant hurt, and he whimpered, feeling a tear slip out. 

“Roll over, babe,” she said, tapping his side, and he went, pillowing his head on his folded arms. She did his back, then, which was almost hairless anyway and didn't take long, and then the backs of his thighs, which was a little painful, a small sting. The backs of his calves, feared for so long, barely registered as he fell into a light doze. 

Margo paused thoughtfully, and then started spreading sukkar over his ass. He tensed. 

“We'll leave your pubic hair,” she explained. “My gentlemen like a good bush. But a fuzzy ass … less popular.”

He hadn't really thought about how targeted her hair removal had been; part of him had been braced for the impending pain of the sugar mixture on his balls, and the realization that it wouldn't be happening drained a lot of the tension from his body. He went limp, and she made an approving noise, before gently continuing.

She did his forearms last. His head was spinning slightly, and he didn't even mind that she needed two passes. When she was done his arms looked smaller, somehow, and he stared down at the newly smooth skin, frowning slightly. 

Margo set the bowl aside and turned around with a pot in her hands. She set it down, reached in and drew out a handful of a white, creamy substance. “You'll like this part,” she promised, and began rubbing a rich lotion into his skin. 

He melted. Any lingering sting was soothed away, and the laudanum became an abiding heat in his middle, and he started to drift, laying on that table. 

“Now,” Margo said briskly, “have you ever given a blow job?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little harder for Quentin, as Margo makes a few missteps.

Eliot's knee stiffened up on the ride, as he knew it would. He camped out by himself the first night, making a little smokeless fire and watching the stars as he thought about the greenhorn he'd left in Margo's care. 

It was hard to get back on his horse the next morning. He heaved the saddle up onto the horse’s broad back, pulled the girth tight, and had to rest his forehead on the saddle for a moment. He panted through the pain, then clenched his jaw and forced himself up into the saddle. He stretched out his bad leg rather than putting it in the stirrup, and rode out like that.

This late in the spring, the day dawned bright and hot, and he was already sweating as he approached the Flying Forest - the only major landmark between the depot and Fillory, and the best place for an ambush. He approached cautiously. 

It was cooler under the trees, and his horse remained calm, ears forward, as the road dipped and wound through the densely packed trees. He wasn’t too worried about himself - a lone rider would make a paltry target for even the leanest of thieves. But when he returned escorting a slow-moving wagon, well. That would be a different story.

Past the woods there was just the river, easily forded, the bluffs, and then the depot, where the nearest train tracks ran. The ride was almost suspiciously easy, and he arrived just before nightfall. Two days out, by himself, but it would take them nearly a week to get back.

He checked in with the depot master, only to find their train hadn’t arrived yet. So he let a small room over the local saloon, boarded his horse at the livery, and got himself some dinner. 

There was a time when he might’ve gotten drunk, that night, as well. He was alone, in a strange town, and while that was always a dangerous condition for a gunslinger, he’d never been afraid enough of death for Margo’s liking. 

But something about those old habits seemed … unnecessary. He had one whiskey, with his meal, and went to bed early, and wondered how Quentin was settling in to Whitespire.

* * *

Quentin lay awake in Eliot’s bed, rubbing his legs together like a cricket. They were so smooth it was distracting, and he couldn’t stop feeling his skin. It was like satin, and it was almost difficult to fall asleep, it was so different. 

He thought about Eliot for a while. Wondered where he was, what exactly he was doing. He'd read enough dime novels to know that Eliot could be fighting bandits, or wild Indians, or he could be caught in a flash flood or a tornado. 

Quentin had no actual knowledge of these things, but his imagination kept him on edge for much of the night.

* * *

Once Quentin was undressed, standing slightly sheepishly with his hands hovering near, though not quite daring to cover, his genitals, Margo started tossing pieces of cloth at him. The first was a skirt, dyed a deep scarlet with elaborate lace and gold embroidery; he pulled it on quickly, and buttoned it at his hips. The fabric, stiff and scratchy, felt strangely arousing against his newly hairless thighs and his bared cock. He shivered, and looked at the further bits of fabric Margo was digging through.

“We need to start you on a training corset,” Margo said, holding up an odd piece of fabric that to Quentin seemed to have more structure than made sense. “Turn around,” Margo continued, twirling a finger, “and put this on.”

The scrap of pale pink cloth she handed him didn't make a great deal of sense. “What is it?”

“Just a base layer. You don't want the corset sitting against your skin, it gets too dirty otherwise.”

Quentin nodded, and pulled the garment on over his head. It settled over his skin, long straps positioning the bulk of the cloth around his belly. It was smooth, and cool; he ran his fingers up and down his sides, feeling its pleasing slickness. 

Margo threw the other garment around him: made of layers of cotton and several stiff pieces, it sat on his hips, and she quickly did up a series of fastenings on the front. He shifted uneasily. The thing felt slightly awkward, too large and sitting oddly against his skin, even with the base layer. “I’m not sure this fits,” he dared to mention.

“Oh, honey, I’m not done yet,” Margo said, moving behind his back.

She grasped at something around his shoulders, and started pulling.

The garment quickly changed shape. The more she pulled, the more it conformed to his sides. As she kept pulling, it started to squeeze at him, especially at the waist; he tried to pull in a breath, and his chest heaved against the corset but couldn’t expand fully.

“Hold still,” Margo snapped, breathing hard herself. She sounded like all the pulling was a lot of work, and with another pull she said, “Alright, that’s enough for now,” tied off the strings, and let him go.

He put his hands on his waist, which was made small by the corset. A shiver went through him. 

Margo turned him back around, and started fussing with the way his chest pressed against the top edge of the corset, pulling on him until it looked almost like he had cleavage.

“This is, um,” Quentin stammered, feeling … unmoored. The skirt swished around his legs, and the corset was like a too-tight hug compressing his middle. Then she helped him into a square-necked blouse that matched the skirt. 

“Okay, now we need to talk about restraint,” she said, stepping back. “Lift up that skirt.”

And something felt strange about that as well; blushing, he pulled up the stiff fabric, exposing himself to her again. It was almost becoming normal to be naked or partly naked around her. 

She worked a metal ring onto his cock, sliding it to the base, her small, clever fingers warm against his skin; a second, smaller ring was settled just below the head, and she did something to clip them together, so that his cock was folded nearly in half.

“What, um, what?” he asked awkwardly, unable to really see what she was doing. He couldn’t bend because of the corset, and however he shifted it in his hands, the skirt was in the way.

“It’s to keep you from getting hard,” she said easily. 

“But, why?”

“I’ll take it off when you’re done with training.” She smiled mischievously. “I want your first time to be … fun.”

“Fun?” he asked, dismayed. She waved a hand, and he took that as his signal to lower the skirts, which swished strangely against his newly bound cock.

“You’ll get all hot and bothered,” she explained, “but you won’t be able to do anything about it until you please a customer.” She patted his cheek. “You should look forward to pleasing the gentlemen. After all, it’s the only time you’ll get off.”

“Oh,” he said, another shiver going through him.

“Now, time we thought about blow jobs,” Margo said cheerfully.

* * *

Margo left Quentin in one of the client rooms with Penny, the tall bartender, who looked down at Quentin with a scowl on his handsome features. “Well?” he snapped. 

Quentin dithered for a moment, then got on his knees, careful of his skirts, and reached for the fly of Penny's denim jeans.

Penny slapped his hands away. “Don't touch me.”

Quentin fell back onto his heels. “What? But, how ...”

Penny rolled his eyes. “You need to learn how to use your teeth,” he said, then started unbuttoning his fly. “You're not practicing on me, though.”

Quentin stared at Penny's cock, already at half-mast and long. He licked his lips, then took in the head, tentatively.

Penny waited for a moment, made an impatient huff, grabbed Quentin by the hair and shoved into his throat. 

Quentin choked, a horrible glurking noise, and tried to pull away. Penny didn't let him, keeping his cock in Quentin's throat while Quentin choked and struggled for air. His eyes were streaming, and after another moment of this, Penny tossed Quentin away from him. Sprawled on the floor, Quentin gasped in some air, and started coughing harshly, barely able to get any breath through the tightness of the corset. He put a hand to his throat, and glanced up at Penny, who looked … disgusted.

“Sorry,” Quentin coughed, still rubbing at his throat. 

“You’re hopeless,” Penny snapped.

“Hey, I’m actually very good at blow jobs, thank you very much,” Quentin said, eyebrows kitting together fiercely. “I’m just not accustomed to dating men so rude as to demand that I deepthroat them right away.”

“This isn’t dating,” Penny pointed out, then sighed, and waved a hand. “Come on, try again.”

Penny was fully hard now, and Quentin approached slowly, with a feeling of apprehension. He took in the head, forcing himself to move a little further down than he wanted to, and before he was ready, sucking on the spongy head and trying to tongue the shaft. It was awkward - Quentin was having to balance himself without his hands, since Penny didn’t want to be touched. 

Again, Penny only let this go on for a few moments before grabbing Quentin’s head in both hands and fucking into his throat. This time he didn’t stop when Quentin choked, just held him tight and kept fucking his face, until Quentin was gasping and drooling around Penny’s long cock. Desperate, Quentin put a hand on Penny’s hip -

Penny pulled out, and slapped him across the face.

Quentin fell back, gasping; a hand flew up to cradle his burning cheek, and he glared up at Penny through watering eyes, his temper sparked. 

Penny’s mouth slanted into a sort of frown. “I said no touching. One of the gentlemen could kill you for a screw up like that.”

Quentin blinked, lowering his head. “Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse.

Penny sighed, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “You should probably talk to Margo. You need more training before you get to a live model.”

And he left. Quentin stayed on the floor for a bit, his skirts puddled around him, trying to breathe through the restrictive corset. His throat felt constricted, like the soft tissues had swollen, and tears were still trickling down his cheeks. 

After a while, his throat calmed down. He wiped his face with his bandaged hand, sniffed, and climbed to his feet.

Maybe Margo would know what to do.

* * *

When he tracked Margo down, and shamefully confessed how his first lesson had gone, she sighed at him. “Quentin, Quentin, Penny is our best. You couldn’t just follow instructions?”

Quentin flushed deeply. “Sorry, I, um.” He had to look down, his crooked fingers twitching. “I couldn’t swallow him,” he whispered.

“Oh, honey,” Margo said, patting his arm. “It’s okay, I can help you with that.” She shifted her hand to the side of his head, holding him still. “Let me just try something,” she said thoughtfully. “Open up.”

He opened his mouth obligingly, and keeping her hold on the side of his head, she slipped three fingers into his mouth. “Now suck,” she said, raising one brow.

He did, tonguing at the pads of her fingers and applying suction to the knuckles.

After a moment she tapped the side of his head. “This isn’t working, skootch down.”

He knelt, shifting his skirts out of the way, and she pressed her fingers back into his mouth, adding a fourth one this time. That was a little much, but he handled the stretch easily, sucking and licking at her delicate fingers.

“Okay, now open wider for me,” she instructed him. He did, opening his jaw as far as he could, and she pushed in so that her knuckles scraped against his teeth, and the widest part of her palm pulled at the corners of his mouth, stretching them thin. He kept sucking, treating the pads of her fingers like the head of a cock, fluttering his tongue against them and trying every other trick he knew. Just because he couldn’t deepthroat didn’t mean he was a complete failure, dammit.

“You’re doing very well,” she said, running her other hand through his hair. He stayed very still, and his eyes fluttered closed at her touch. “Okay, this isn’t the problem. Let’s just …”

And she pushed further in.

Her fingertips just touched the back of his throat, and he yanked away from her, coughing and retching at the feeling. 

She stared at him, her hand held to her chest like he’d startled her.

“Sorry,” he said, coughing again. His hand rubbed at his throat, and his eyes were watering with frustration, now, as much as anything. “Why can’t I get this right?”

Her stern expression softened. “I know exactly what you need.”

She took him to her office, and had him sit on her nice velvet couch while she got something out of her desk.

It was a strange, carved wooden phallus, sharply curved, with leather straps at one end. “What is that?” he asked.

“Just open your mouth, sweetie,” she said, and when he did, shoved it in.

The curved part went into his throat, and she swiftly buckled it at the back of his head as his throat started to spasm and flex against the obstruction. He started to panic, staring at her with wide eyes, his nostrils flaring to take in more air.

“Shh,” she said, stroking his hair. “You’re fine, you can breathe, just let it happen.”

It wasn’t helping, and his mangled fingers flew up to scrabble uselessly at the buckle, chest heaving against the restriction of the corset. His eyes started to water, his nose started to run, and his heart thundered in his chest. A little air was getting in but it didn’t, couldn’t feel like enough, the edges of his vision were going black and his hands went to Margo’s skirt, tugging on it pleadingly.

“Okay, okay” she said in a soothing voice, reaching for the straps. “You’re okay.” She unbuckled the straps with quick fingers, and eased it out of his throat. It felt almost as bad on the way out as it had being forced in, scraping his throat and knocking against his teeth. She pulled it away and he doubled over, as much as he could in the corset, coughing and retching. 

“No,” he managed, waving a hand at the wicked device. “Not, _hack_ that, no.”

“Okay, we’ll think of something else,” she said, and sat beside him on the velvet couch, stroking his hair as he fought with his seizing throat. “Sorry,” she whispered, as he continued to struggle.

His breathing finally calmed, and he lay there as she kept petting his hair in slow, soothing movements, her voice a steady, calming patter. And after a while, he found that he could breathe again.

“That’s good,” Margo purred, stroking his forehead and running her fingers through his hair. “That’s my good girl.”

Another of those strange shudders went through Quentin, his whole spine shivering, and his bound cock jumping a little. Margo’s lap was soft, and she kept stroking his hair and he eventually fell into an uneasy doze.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo continues Quentin's training, and Eliot runs into a problem on the trail.

After perhaps twenty minutes of rest, Margo urged him up again. Quentin moved stiffly, wary of turning his head too much or doing anything to disturb his throat, which still felt rather tender and sore from his brief time in the gag.

“Now, the other big problem,” Margo started, “is that our gentlemen won’t always take the time for prep.”

Quentin, still breathing carefully, asked, “What do you mean?”

“You’ll need to be ready for them to just tip you over and thrust in,” she explained, pulling out another oddly carved phallus. This one had a large bulge in it above an extremely narrow neck. “You’ll wear this, get you stretched out, and that way you won’t get hurt your first time.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Just a few hours a day, at first,” she said. “We don’t want you getting too sore.”

She really did think of all the details, he thought.

She patted the surface of her desk. “Come on, lean over this.”

He stretched himself over the cold wooden surface, having to bend at his hips because of the corset - this felt very odd to him, the lack of flexibility, and he held onto the other side of the desk with his sore fingers. She threw his skirts up over his head, exposing his bare ass and stroking it soothingly with one hand. 

Margo oiled up the phallus, and worked it into his ass. The head pressed against his rim, and she just kept pushing, a great pressure against the delicate muscles there. He sucked in desperate bits of air through his open mouth as Margo pushed the thing in him with steady, relentless pressure.

“Relax,” she said, smacking his ass with her other hand. The slight sting made him jump, and a whine escaped his throat. The thing still wasn’t going in; with a frustrated huff, she set it aside and pressed an oiled finger into him. 

That felt a bit strange, but also quite a bit nicer. She pushed deeper into him, the slide of flesh on flesh sending odd zings up his spine; then she added another finger, and he started to understand what all the fuss was about. The stretch felt … well, he couldn’t quite think how to describe it. It was like his legs went numb and then the rest of the feeling went straight to his cock, which was still bound and tried to grow hard but couldn’t. A bit of sweat sprang up on his back and shoulders, and he tried to control his breathing, huffing a little. The corset made it hard to get a full breath, and he felt like he was fighting it, or straining against it.

She worked him up to three fingers, and as the stretch started to feel less strange and more arousing, she tried again with the phallus. 

It was still hard, but more of it went into him with her first steady push. She kept the pressure on, and it strained against his hole. He whined again, pressing his cheek to the desk’s cool wooden top. She rubbed his thigh, but kept pressing the phallus in to the point of pain, a stretch beyond what she’d managed with her fingers. She kept pushing. There was a sting, and he flinched - but that was it, it was in. It slid home, and his hole closed around the thin neck of it.

Air whistled in through his nose, his clenched teeth. She stroked his thigh, long, soothing strokes, as he calmed down.

“Wear that for a few hours,” she said, standing up and wiping her hands briskly with a towel. “Come back here when it gets too sore.”

He stood slowly, and asked, “What about the other thing? The, um, swallowing thing?”

She laughed, not maliciously. “I’m afraid that’s a longer course of treatment. We’ll talk about it a little later, after the plug gets to be too much.”

He sniffed, resigned, and smoothed down his bright red skirts.

* * *

Eliot was not facing a flash flood, or bandits. He was mostly bored. 

He rode point on the caravan, which consisted of the pay wagon, the bank manager, a surly Russian named Mayakovsky, a few employees he was bringing with him from his previous banking job, a woman who seemed too young for him, and a few guards he’d hired personally. Eliot was the only one there representing Margo’s interests, which made him a touch nervous - but as he understood it, she was only a partial owner of this bank, and Mayakovsky was taking on most of the liability. Even if the entire caravan were lost, Margo wouldn’t be in real danger.

The sun burned down hot, and the road before them was thick with dust that was kicked up by the wind and drifted in gold shimmers to the horizon. Eliot was becoming mesmerized, watching it. Nothing else was happening. Two of Mayakovsky’s guards were chatting idly about women they’d slept with. Eliot tried to keep on the alert, scanning the horizon. 

The woman and Mayakovsky rode on the wagon with the money and the driver. She was remarking on every tiny feature of the landscape, trees and creeks and even bushes sometimes, and he was saying things designed to flatter. After a bit, she pointed to a distant mesa, and Mayakovsky called Eliot back to the wagon.

He let his horse fall in beside the wagon, and tipped his hat to the woman. Always best to assume a woman was a lady, in his experience. “What’s that cliff over there,” she asked, her eyes bright.

“That’s Anhio Mesa,” he started to explain, when all hell broke loose.

One of the other guards had taken point, and he’d ridden right across a rattlesnake. His horse reared up and screamed, and the team pulling the wagon spooked, and the driver, distracted by their chatter about the mesa, lost control of the reins as the team began to gallop north.

Eliot drew his gun and shot the snake before he’d thought about it.

Two of the other guards took off after the wagon. Mayakovsky’s woman was shrieking, and her screams grew distant as Eliot watched the wagon vanish.

“Shit,” Eliot muttered to himself, before holstering his gun and checking on the first guard. “You bit?”

“No, we’re okay,” the man said, patting his horse’s sweating neck.

The remaining guard, and a few bank employees, milled about on their horses. Eliot tried to keep them together and calm as they waited for the wagon to come back.

But the minutes passed, and it didn’t come back. 

Eliot’s horse shifted restlessly beneath him, and he patted her neck, feeling the dampness under her mane. It was a warm day, they were all sweating a little. After about twenty minutes, Eliot turned to the other guard. “Watch them,” he ordered, and set out after the wagon.

Its tracks were clear as day, even in the rocky, dusty landscape. Eliot spurred his mare into a quick canter, his knee throbbing and aching every time her back left good set down. She lunged up a small rise, and the wagon was just on the other side.

Eliot pulled on the reins gently, observing the site. It was a hell of a mess - the wagon’s axle was broken, clearly, and Mayakovsky was holding his sobbing woman, off to one side, his own face red as a beet as he shouted at the driver. The guard who'd galloped after them was kneeling by the axle, peering beneath the wagon as if he'd find another one just waiting there. 

Eliot shifted his hat, and sighed. So much for a quick return trip.

“What will we do?” Mayakovsky lamented, staring at the broken wagon.

Eliot dismounted, slow on his bad knee, and turned to the guard. “Hey, come here.”

They went aside a few steps, to where the others wouldn’t overhear, and Eliot told him quietly, “Go get one of the other guards, and ride back to town for a new wagon and a fresh team of horses.” He took off his hat and looked around at the mess. “Hell, maybe we’ll make better time with two teams. Send everyone else after us, and we’ll make camp here until you get back. See if you can find some men to help shift the gold, too.” He paused, looked at the guard. “Trustworthy men, or don’t bother. Better to do it ourselves than risk an ambush down the road.”

“You got it,” the guard said, tipped his hat, and jumped into the saddle. He disappeared back the way they’d come, dust rising to show his progress. Eliot watched it almost wistfully, thinking of a time when he would’ve gone himself. 

He shook his head, and turned back to the others. “Okay, we’re going to make camp here until the guard gets back with a new wagon.”

“Cannot we fix this wagon?” Mayakovsky asked with a sort of arch superiority.

Eliot despised men like that. “Did you bring a spare axle?” 

Mayakovsky subsided into quiet grumbling that Eliot was able to ignore as the first of the bank’s employees appeared on the horizon.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin meets a few of the other girls.

Quentin was slightly nervous about going into the front room in his skirt, corset and blouse. The plug wouldn’t be visible, of course, but it made him feel strangely conspicuous, like anyone looking would be able to tell. He also wasn’t sure how he felt about roaming the saloon barefoot, like he was uncivilized or something. 

So he wandered through the back halls and offices, poked his head into the kitchen, located a series of small rooms like parlors in miniature. He hid in one for a bit, stretching out on a velvet loveseat to take some of the pressure off of the plug. 

When he was lying back, it didn’t feel half bad, actually. He shifted his hips against the firm horsehair cushions and the movement pressed the plug against his prostate, sending a bolt of pleasure up his spine. He tilted his hips a little more, rocking them against the cushions. His bound cock was trying to get hard, and it strained against the rings. He ran his hands up his corseted sides, feeling the alien curve like a strange warmth in his middle. 

Quentin’s ribs couldn't expand very far, a binding and pressure when he tried. His breaths had to shift upward, to the tops of his lungs, and as he got more excited it got harder to get a good, deep breath. He tried to reach for his cock, and between the stiffness of the corset and how his cock was bound, found it to be just out of reach. He whined, shifted his hips. 

A head poked in through the door, and Quentin, startled, yanked his hand away from himself and tried to stand up. Like a turtle on its back, he was stuck, the corset not allowing enough bend in his spine to sit up that way, and he rolled toward the back of the couch, then toward its front. Finally he grabbed the back and pulled himself up, panting. “What?” he gasped.

The woman who’d interrupted him chuckled. She appeared to be one of Margo’s other girls, red headed and as tall as he was. “I’m Poppy,” she said, still laughing at him.

“Um, Quentin,” he answered, blushing as he realized she must know what he’d been up to. “I, um, I was just, I …”

“It’s okay,” she drawled, coming further into the room. “I remember what the first few days were like.”

Still blushing, Quentin moved so that she could sit next to him on the couch. She handled her own corset and skirts with the ease of long use, gracefully. “Does it get better?” he asked, somewhat plaintively.

“Of course it does.” She patted his shoulder. Then stroked it. “We, well, we help each other out, on occasion.”

Quentin swallowed. “Oh, yeah?”

Poppy smiled, somewhat smugly, put a hand on his neck, and pulled him into a kiss.

Poppy was a very good kisser.

Quentin moaned, feeling it all the way to his center. He squirmed, needing to get closer. Poppy slid a clever hand up his skirt, sliding up his thigh in a way that had him panting into their kiss. She pulled him into her, and he wriggled onto her lap, her hand grabbing his ass and squeezing. He pushed into her, rocking against her, his bound cock throbbing with every movement but all of it too delicious to stop.

Poppy yanked on his hair and pushed on the base of the plug at the same time, and he yelped at the zing of pleasure/pain. 

Then she worked a hand between them, delving into his skirts to feel the rings binding his cock.

He pulled back, eyes wide, as his cock throbbed. “I don't think …”

“That's the idea,” Poppy said brightly. “Don't think.”

Quentin swallowed, hips shifting restlessly. “But Margo said …”

Poppy rolled her eyes. “Ugh, do you always follow the rules?” she asked, and yanked him into another kiss. 

Quentin protested, the sound muffled between them, and then her clever hand was on his cock. With just a few quick movements, she unhooked the two rings, and his cock sprang erect. Quentin moaned, he couldn’t help it, pushing into Poppy’s hand before yanking himself away. He stared at her, panting against the corset’s constriction. “I don’t, uh, I mean, this is, I, um.”

She leaned back, laughing. “Oh my god, Quentin, sweetie, it’s not that big a deal.”

He felt himself blushing, warmth rushing up his neck and stinging his cheeks. He was so hard that it hurt, and he ran his hands over the front of his skirt restlessly. His bare shoulders pulled in, and he glanced up at her through his lashes.

Poppy growled, and threw him back on the sofa, climbing up on top of him and kissing him with a hungry, almost animalistic force. Quentin flailed out an arm, caught the back of the sofa but couldn’t get any leverage. Her thigh pressed down against his freed cock, and the weight of her put pressure on the butt plug and he arched his back, getting the pressure against his prostate. She put both hands in his hair and pulled, and the feeling went straight to his cock.

With a surge of determination, he pushed her off. She fell onto the floor in a whirl of skirts, and he sat up, gasping for breath.

“What the hell, Q?” Poppy asked, pulling herself upright. 

“I don’t think we should do this,” he said firmly. His hands tried to clench at his skirts, but the soreness of his fingers wouldn’t let him. “I think, um, I don’t think we should do this.”

She cocked her head at him, then stood, briskly brushing dust off her skirts. “Good job.”

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “It was a test, stupid. And you passed!” She clapped her hands together, then stuck one out to him. “Come on, let’s go tell Margo.”

Quentin scooted back. “What? I, um, I don’t.”

Poppy shook her hand. “Come on.”

He took her hand, tentatively, and let her help him to his feet. He was still achingly hard, and between that and the plug walking was a little difficult, but he followed her to Margo’s office.

Poppy stuck her head in the door, and called cheerfully, “He passed!”

Quentin followed her in more slowly, blush still high on his cheeks. 

Margo was sitting behind her desk, and she raised a brow at Quentin’s cringing form. “I thought you might,” she said approvingly.

“Oh, I.” Quentin ducked his head, fighting the impulse to twist his aching fingers together. “Thanks?”

Margo smiled, stood and came around the desk to take Quentin into her arms. “You did such a good job, baby,” she cooed, rubbing his back gently. Her other hand worked its way under his skirts, and she grasped his cock. He jumped, and she gentled him back down. “It’s okay, baby Q. You did so well, sweetheart, come for me.”

The praise went straight through him, and he spilled into her hand, shuddering and clenching around the plug.

Margo petted him until he stilled, and then clipped the rings back together. “That was a special treat for my good girl,” she said, making him blush again. “But not again until your first gentleman, got it?”

“Got it, Margo,” he whispered.

Behind her, Poppy gave him a thumbs up, grinning. Quentin shifted uneasily, letting his hair obscure part of his face.

Margo reached up and tucked some of his hair behind his ear. “You are adorable,” she said, eyeing him in a way that made him both excited and nervous. “The gentlemen are just going to eat you up.”

“Oh, I,” Quentin stuttered breathlessly.

“How are you feeling about the plug?” she asked him. “It’s been a couple of hours, are you sore?”

“I could take a little more,” he said bravely.

“I know you could, my good girl. But let’s err on the side of caution,” Margo said briskly. “Come on, over my desk.”

Quentin leaned over it obediently, and she lifted up his skirts and worked the plug back out. His rim was a little sore, after all, and he hissed as the widest part popped loose. She patted his back, and handed the plug off to Poppy before fingering Quentin’s hole. “You’re a little red,” she said thoughtfully. “Poppy, make sure Quentin gets an enema in the morning, and two hours in the plug. We’ll see how he handles it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Poppy said brightly.

Quentin wasn’t entirely sure what this meant, but wasn’t feeling bold enough to ask. 

“What about the corset?” Poppy asked then.

“Oh, right, get that off of him in another hour, will you?” Margo said carelessly, moving back to her desk. “Go on, now, I need to get some work done.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Poppy and Quentin both muttered. Poppy curtsied, and Quentin tried to follow suit, though he wobbled and nearly fell over. Poppy grabbed his arm, and dragged him out of Margo’s office.

“Ow,” he said, pulling free of her grip.

“Well stop being such an idiot,” Poppy said cheerfully, continuing down the hallway. When he didn’t follow, she paused, and looked back at him. “You coming?”

“Where?” he asked warily.

“Lunch, silly.”

He was a bit hungry, so he followed her to the kitchen. A lot of the other girls were there, and Quentin felt a little shy and conspicuous as Poppy led him to a seat near the wall. 

A tall, blonde girl brought them plates of food, slices of cold ham, cheese and pickle, with big, thick hunks of freshly baked bread. 

“Thanks,” he said to her, taking the plate carefully. “I’m Quentin.”

“Victoria,” the girl said, nodding to him before retreating to the stove.

“We take it in turns,” Poppy explained.

Quentin’s eyes widened. “I’m really not a good cook.”

Poppy shrugged. “A lot of us are terrible. It’s only once a week or so, and we can teach you a few easy things.”

“Okay,” Quentin said uncertainly, picking at a bit of cheese.

Another boy wearing a corset and skirts came over, a big smile on his face, dark curly hair a halo around his head. “Hi,” he said, grinning even bigger. “I’m Todd, you must be Quentin.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, looking down at his plate.

Todd sat next to him, a little too close, and Quentin fought the urge to scoot away from him. 

“So where are you from?” Todd asked. He was like a puppy, too enthusiastic for Quentin’s nerves. 

“New York,” Quentin said shortly, struggling with his food. His fingers didn’t quite want to grasp the slices of pickle.

“Oh, here,” Todd said, picking up a piece easily and popping it into Quentin’s mouth.

Quentin’s lips closed around the morsel of food, and he froze for a second, too stunned to react.

“Todd, go on,” Poppy said, waving a hand at him. “I’m supposed to watch Quentin, so get.”

“Well, we can talk later,” Todd said, shrugging it off. “Bye, Quentin!”

“Bye,” Quentin said, not sincerely.

“He’s just enthusiastic,” Poppy explained, her own mask of cheer slipping a bit.

“And you?” Quentin asked, swallowing his bit of pickle.

“Oh, I’m enthusiastic, too,” Poppy said. “I love working here.”

Her grin send a shiver up Quentin’s spine, not a good one, and he focused on his plate after that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poppy helps Quentin with his new morning routine; Quentin learns how to practice deep-throating; we check in with Eliot.

Quentin slept in Eliot’s bed again that night. He was starting to forget what the handsome gunslinger looked like. Not completely, he would recognize the other man when he saw him. But they’d known each other for such a short time before Eliot had needed to leave, that Quentin was starting to lose the finer details. Eliot had a beak of a nose, but was Quentin exaggerating it in his memory? Eliot was very tall, but how tall exactly? Were his eyes brown or hazel? Had he just seemed attracted to Quentin, or was this thing between them real? 

He wanted it to be real.

He also really wanted to jack off. His bound cock was sensitive and throbbing a little as he thought about Eliot, and about what they might do when Eliot got back. Poppy had helped him out of the corset earlier, and now he took advantage to breathe deeply and stretch across the bed, arching his back just because he could. He almost wished the plug were still in, his hole feeling a little empty, the lingering soreness like a reminder of what he could have. 

He drifted off to sleep eventually, his stymied arousal following him into his dreams and rendering them lurid, and anything but restful.

* * *

“Rise and shine!”

Quentin bolted upright, and groaned.

Poppy was at Eliot’s window, sweeping open the curtains with broad motions, the sunlight streaming in to pierce Quentin’s brain. He felt like he hadn’t slept, or was still asleep. And horny. In spite of the aching head, he was suffering equally from an aching cock. “What do you want, Poppy?”

“Time for your enema!” Poppy said brightly. “Then a few hours in the corset and plug, then lunch. Yum.”

“Oh, right,” Quentin groaned, scooting to the edge of Eliot’s bed. “What, um, what is an enema?”

Poppy laughed, a rather endearing snort and giggle. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Don’t bother getting dressed,” she said, as he started to climb into his skirts. “We’ll take care of this first.”

Quentin let the skirts fall back to Eliot’s bed, and stood, only slightly self-conscious. This woman had nearly slept with him yesterday, watched Margo get him off; it would be hard to pretend to modesty now. He still felt something squirmy and unsettled in the pit of his stomach, though, some unnamed apprehension as he approached Poppy. He was aware of his nakedness in ways that felt like they should be redundant, unnecessary, but which he couldn’t shake. 

She was arranging several objects, some tubing, and a pitcher of water on the table, and Quentin could only wonder what all the objects were for.

“Here, lean over this,” Poppy offered, pulling a small bench away from the wall. 

It was carved oak, and padded with brightly patterned cloth. Quentin knelt in front of it, his brow knitting.

“No,” Poppy stopped him. “Up and over, come on.” She grabbed his arm, and tugged on him until he was draped over the bench, ass in the air and elbows on the floor on the other side. He felt about as awkward as a human being could feel, and he dropped his head to rest on his forearms, hiding his face.

Poppy nudged his legs apart, putting his hole fully on display. Quentin flushed, feeling the heat creep over his shoulders and neck, only hoping that Poppy wouldn’t notice. She touched his rim with oiled fingers, circling gently to soften the furled knot. Quentin slowly relaxed, and her fingers slipped in, scissoring and widening his opening. He bound cock wanted to get hard, and he squirmed, feeling the wooden bench hard beneath his hips.

“Hold still,” Poppy scolded, removing her fingers. Quentin whined in disappointment, but Poppy quickly replaced them with something hard and bulbous, like the butt plug but different somehow. It went in deeper, and Quentin felt that uneasiness come over him again. She picked something up off the table, and he tried to crane his neck around to see what she was doing.

Poppy smacked his thigh. “Stop that, and relax,” she said.

Quentin let his head hang back down, and sighed.

She was doing something to the plug-like phallus she’d shoved in his ass, fiddling with the end of it. The small movements were making him squirm. Then there was a sound of pouring water, and after a slight delay Quentin felt a coolness trickling into his gut.

“What?” he started, froze, scared to move.

“It’s an enema,” Poppy said, placing a hand on his lower back and pressing him down. “Using this tube, we fill your guts with water, and clean you out.”

“Oh,” Quentin muttered, blush deepening. 

“It’ll make it easier to be with the gentlemen,” she explained, patting his back. “Since you don’t have a cunny.”

“Right, no, I get it,” Quentin managed, hiding his head under his folded arms as the water kept rushing in and he started to feel a pressure in his lower gut, a fullness that quickly grew uncomfortable. He squirmed, reflexively tightening his hands into fists before the sharp burst of pain made him straighten them back out. A cramp rocked through him, and he hissed in a breath. 

“Okay, that’s enough for the first time,” she said after another moment. Then she was fiddling with the base of the plug again, and then she just stood up and walked away.

“Um, Poppy?” Quentin called, his voice a little panicked. 

“Oh, relax, I put in the stopper. Just hold it for ten minutes, I’ll be right back.”

“Ten minutes?” he whispered, wincing. The cramps were getting worse, and he started to sweat. He felt full, too full, the water inside him like a great weight, and he squirmed on the bench, too scared to get up or otherwise move. He panted for breath, feeling like the heavy weight at his center was pressing against his lungs.

Part of Quentin sort of … went away, then. He lost track of time passing, and the weight of the water became an overwhelming lens through which the world became distant, and Quentin, or Quentin’s feeling of himself, faded. He floated above the pain, and everything in his head went weird and quiet.

The first he knew of Poppy’s return, she was hauling him up off the bench. Quentin went with her, blinking rapidly and weaving in her grip. 

“Ugh, help me,” Poppy grunted, pulling him toward a chamber pot. 

Quentin stumbled, feeling almost drunk. She bent him over near the pot, said “Hang on,” and pulled the plug out. He strained to keep in the water, but he didn’t have to for long. She got the pot under him, and he released with a sense of almost sexual relief. 

He felt lighter, drained and empty and as if something had gone missing from him. He wobbled over the pot, and Poppy helped him up with nearly sympathetic hands. 

“Get cleaned up,” she said, patting his arm, “and we’ll get to the corset next.”

Quentin swayed, but managed to keep his feet as she gave him a little privacy. He cleaned himself with shaking hands, wiping away sweat and things he didn’t care to think about. Once he was clean, Poppy helped him into his linen underlayer, his corset, and then a slightly larger plug than Margo had used yesterday. She had to help him into his skirts, after that. He felt floaty, and awkward as he tried to move, like he’d already forgotten how to bend with the corset on. The plug was shaped differently, too, pressing against his prostate, rubbing against it or aslant it every time he so much as shifted. Walking would be an adventure. 

“Now,” Poppy said as they got him together, “Penny tells me you aren’t very good at blow jobs.”

Quentin scowled. “That isn’t entirely fair, I’m pretty good at blow jobs, he just, just shoved right in!”

“Well, the customers will do that sometimes,” Poppy said reasonably.

Quentin tilted his head. “You didn’t call them gentlemen.” When she looked questioning, he continued, “It’s just, Margo always seems to call them gentlemen, not customers, or clients, or anything like that.”

Penny smiled oddly. “Margo has a particular fantasy that she likes to sell. It’s … nice.”

Quentin nibbled on his lower lip. “Nice? Not, um, not really how things are?”

Poppy shrugged. “Everything can’t be beautiful. Now,” she brightened, reaching into her embroidered bag to pull out a very substantial carved phallus. It wasn’t wood, though. Quentin couldn’t quite tell what material it was carved from. “Let’s practice!”

Quentin took a breath. He was feeling squeezed by the corset, stuffed full by the plug, and still a little floaty from the enema. “Could we do this later?”

“No time like the present!” she said perkily. “Now, I’ll show you some tricks, and then you can try.”

Knowing that she would go first, and wouldn’t just shove the thing down his throat, helped Quentin calm down a little, and he crouched beside her on his heels as she set the phallus on its base on a small stool and bent over it. “So is there a secret, or, um, something?”

Poppy laughed. “Not exactly. Just experience. Well,” she paused, squinted thoughtfully. “There is something Margo showed us. Here, take your thumb and press it, hard, just here on your palm,” she explained, demonstrating with her own hands.

Quentin looked down at his still-healing fingers. “I. I can’t.”

“Oh, right,” Poppy said, not even really sheepish just matter-of-factly about her mistake. “Well, we’ll keep it traditional. So the thing is, you want to learn how to suppress your gag reflex.”

“Gag reflex, okay.”

“Right, whenever something brushes the back of your throat and you want to throw up?”

“Yes, I know, I get it,” Quentin huffed, crossing his arms. The corset made the action feel different, and he shifted his bare shoulders uneasily.

“Okay, so you’ll want to take the phallus in your mouth just until it brushes the back of your throat, and keep it there. Just for a few seconds. Then pull off.” She grasped the phallus at its base, said, “Like this,” and very efficiently slid the whole thing down her throat. 

“Wow,” Quentin said, watching her avidly.

“Okay, you try.”

Quentin thought for a moment about whether or not it would be impolite to ask her to wash the phallus before his turn. “Um …”

“Nervous?” she asked, seeming sympathetic.

“No, just, um.” Quentin squirmed. “Can we wash it? Please?”

Poppy rolled her eyes. “Fine, you big baby.” She rinsed it quickly in the basin with a little soap, then tossed it at him. 

He caught it, fumbled, nearly dropped it, and ended up hugging it against his chest. He shot her an exasperated look, and she shrugged innocently. “Go on,” she said, motioning with her hands. “Try.”

Quentin set the phallus onto the stool, scooting closer on his knees. He licked his lips. It was large, larger than Penny, and, well, he’d been talking a good game but his previous boyfriends hadn’t been … numerous, or particularly well-endowed. He breathed again, and took the carved head in his mouth.

The material was hard, and slicker than wood, still damp with water and it went in easily. He took the phallus into the back of his mouth, letting the head brush the back of his throat. 

A spasm went through his throat, and he wanted to spring back. Poppy yelled, “Hold on! You can do it!” And he sucked air through his nose, and he trembled, but he held. “Okay, pull back,” she said, touching his arm.

He pulled off, breathing deeply and a little too fast. He’d been fine, it was fine, nothing had happened. But that feeling …

“Okay, so just do that a few times a day for the next few weeks. Once you can hold it, well, hold it longer, and then try a thrusting motion. That,” she paused, held up a hand. “That is going to be the worst, the absolute worst. But just, well, work with it.” Then she started for the door. 

“You’re not staying?”

“You got this,” she said brightly. “See you at breakfast!”

He returned her wave, and then he was alone, facing the phallus. He’d forgotten to ask what it was carved from. He took in a breath, grasped the base, and tried again.

* * *

Eliot sat in his canvas tent alone, cursing bankers and Margo and the weather, all about equally. It was currently raining so hard that the raindrops hit the dirt and exploded like cannon balls, splattered and bounced. Even in the tent, Eliot was damp. The road would be washed out by the time this was over. They had their replacement wagon, they'd transferred the gold over the course of a single, hellish day, and then the heavens had opened. 

Eliot was not happy about the additional delay. His campaigning days were long behind him. He liked having his own bed, regular hot meals and free dick whenever he asked. 

And he worried that if he didn't return soon, Margo might have to move ahead with Quentin's training. He couldn't go un-fucked forever…

Eliot knew it didn't really matter, but he had a fancy, and Margo knew this about him, of being Quentin's first.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin gains the help of one of the other girls with his deep throating issue, but this leads to trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need to thank sullyandlulu and WildeBones for their help with this chapter, thanks guys! <3

Quentin made it downstairs, sort of waddling around the feel of the plug, a little before lunch. He shuffled into the kitchen, finding the other girls chatting over a big, steaming pot of stew. 

He stood near the wall, watching them. They seemed like friends, talking and gossiping and asking each other for advice. He had a friend like that, once. He felt a pang of loneliness. 

Someone thumped him on the arm, and he turned to see the singer, Kady, standing in the doorway. “You missed breakfast,” she said, glaring at him.

Quentin swallowed. “Um, sorry?”

“Don't do it again,” Kady said, then walked over to the stove. 

Quentin frowned. He hadn't been hungry, he thought, and felt a little ruffled by the injustice. 

Todd had overheard, and he shuffled closer. “She means well.”

Quentin looked at Todd, cocking his head. “How so?”

The question seemed to fluster Todd, who blushed and ducked his head. “I just meant, Margo wants us to stay healthy. She cares. So she asked Kady to keep an eye on us. Make sure we're eating, getting enough sleep. Stuff like that.”

“Oh,” Quentin said, not really knowing how to respond. “Well, I'm just going to…” he gestured toward the stove, and left Todd standing against the wall. 

“Wait,” Todd said, touching Quentin's arm. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Quentin waited, and after a moment, said, “Yeah? Ask me what?”

Todd's face was red but his eyes were cheerful. “Do you want to practice after lunch?”

“Practice?”

Todd looked shifty then. “I heard you were having trouble. With. Oral sex?”

Quentin's face felt hot. “Does everyone know?”

“No! Well.” Todd shrugged. “We don't really use the ivory dildo for much more than oral practice.”

“Oh my god,” Quentin said, and turned back toward the stove.

“So do you wanna practice?” Todd called.

Quentin waved a careless hand, waddling over to the stove and taking a bowl of stew and a square of cornbread from Poppy. She winked at him. Quentin just sighed, and retreated to a corner to eat.

* * *

Todd led Quentin into a side room and rucked up his skirts with a rather engaging grin.

Quentin knelt in front of him and put his hands on Todd's satin-smooth thighs. Todd was wearing pretty, embroidered panties, his cock a hard bulge beneath the soft cotton. 

He leaned back and looked up at Todd from beneath his lashes. “Can you …?”

“Oh, right!” Todd shifted so that he could tuck his skirts between his back and the wall he was leaning against, and then reached down and pulled the panties down his thighs. 

His cock bounced up against his belly. It was already leaking precome, and left a wet smear in the thin trail of dark hair leading down to his bush. It was a fine cock, pink and much less intimidating than Penny’s. The foreskin was a darker shade of pink, like it was blushing, and Quentin found it … endearing. 

Quentin leaned forward and touched his tongue to the tip, taking in a little precome, tasting the soft skin. Todd sucked in a breath, and Quentin took the head into his mouth. Beneath his hands, Todd's thighs flexed and trembled. Remembering Penny's critique, Quentin moved down the shaft faster than he liked, fitting almost all of Todd's length into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks.

Todd shook above him, whining, but he didn't move.

Quentin pulled off, sitting back on his heels and looking up at Todd impatiently. “I thought we were going to practice the stuff I'm bad at.” When Todd looked confused, Quentin said, “Thrusting.”

“Oh,” Todd said, and when Quentin took him back into his mouth, Todd's hips moved. A gentle rocking motion at first, but then, as Todd realized that Quentin could take it, he started moving faster. Quentin opened his mouth, and worked his tongue along the bottom of Todd's shaft. Todd's cock filled his mouth and touched the back of his throat - and Quentin took a breath, relaxed his throat, and let Todd thrust into it.

It was fucking terrible, and Quentin yanked back, coughing. 

“Sorry!” Todd said quickly, his hands fluttering around him like two birds, afraid to touch. “I don't think you're ready.”

“Obviously not,” Quentin said hoarsely, putting one palm to the thin skin of his throat.

“I think I shouldn't move …”

“Okay,” Quentin said, still breathing a little hard. “Okay, let's try this again.”

Quentin braced his hands on Todd's thighs again, and sucked him down in one swift move. Todd stayed still as a statue, thighs trembling with the effort, as Quentin did his best to force himself further and further down Todd’s shaft with every bob of his head. 

Being in control made it easier. He could back away as he needed, and so that awful feeling of panic and constriction didn’t come. The plug was a heavy weight at his entrance, and between that and the squeeze of the corset he was already feeling too full of things. Adding a cock in his mouth wasn’t exactly helping. But as he was able to modulate his pace, he managed to get a little further down, and then even a little further than that. And Todd’s cock had a lovely, spongy head, not at all like the ivory dildo, and so when it brushed the back of Quentin’s mouth, it didn’t hurt. And the next time, he got it a little deeper. 

There was a point beyond which he couldn’t quite get it to go. Todd was being so still, shaking now but holding position. Quentin knew he needed to get this skill down. He blew a harsh breath out of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut, and went for it. Change the angle a little, push forward - and it was in, Todd’s cock was in his throat, Quentin had done it!

Then Quentin tried to swallow around the head, and Todd came.

The unexpected flood of come sent Quentin reeling back, coughing and sputtering as Todd wailed, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” and his come striped Quentin’s face and chest, getting all over his blouse. Quentin fell back on his heels, then onto one hip.

“You asshole,” Quentin said, coughing wetly.

Todd slid down the wall. “I’m really sorry,” he said, then brightened. “Hey, you did it though!”

Quentin glared at him. “That was the worst possible outcome, Todd.” He coughed again. 

Todd looked crestfallen. “And I’ll have to tell Margo that I came,” he sighed mournfully.

Quentin blinked. “Oh, right, the rules.” 

Todd nodded, and slowly pulled himself up. “Come on, might as well get it over with.”

“Why do I have to come?”

“You were involved,” Todd said, very reasonably. “You’re, um, covered in the evidence.

Quentin sighed. “I was doing really well, you know. Rules wise.”

“Sorry,” Todd said again.

“Just … just stop apologizing,” Quentin said, rubbing a hand over his face. It just smeared the come around, and his shoulders dropped, defeated. 

“You’re not mad?” Todd asked hopefully.

“Not, um, not really,” Quentin said, which wasn’t strictly true but Todd looked so sad that Quentin felt like a heel. 

“Oh, good,” Todd said, sweeping him into a sideways hug as they continued down the hall and to the stairs. “I want us to be friends.”

Quentin didn’t fight the hug, which was as generous as he could manage to be at the moment. Other girls were starting to notice them, Todd glowing and Quentin covered in come, and he caught the glances and whispers that followed them to Margo’s office and felt like a failure.

Todd knocked on Margo’s door very politely, and she called out, “Enter!” Quentin was starting to feel that weird twist of nausea and anticipation in his gut, and his legs didn’t quite want to work. Todd pushed the door open, and pulled Quentin in with him. 

Todd went right up to Margo’s desk. She was seated behind it, and raised a single, elegant brow at him as Todd stood in a posture that was almost like a soldier coming to attention. “What is it?” she asked wearily.

“I was helping Quentin with his oral training, but I came by mistake, ma’am.”

Margo stood slowly. “Oh, you did, did you?”

Quentin felt himself cringing back

“Yes, ma’am,” Todd said, sounding really penitent. His hands were clenched at his sides, but he didn’t otherwise move. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I should’ve been more careful.”

“Yes, you should have,” she said, then looked at Quentin. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “For what, exactly?”

Quentin wanted to wring his hands, wanted to hide himself, but he tried to stand at attention like Todd and take it honorably. “For, um, making Todd break the rules?”

Then Margo smiled at him. “That’s a good girl, Quentin.”

Her voice was like honey, and some of Quentin’s apprehension melted. She wasn’t mad? She was actually pleased with him?

“But you,” she said, turning back to Todd, “you should have stopped him when you got too close.”

Todd hung his head, then. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

She looked at him for a moment, then said, “Twenty, I think,” and with this somewhat oblique comment sat on the velvet couch and patted her lap. Quentin froze, not knowing what to do, but Todd went immediately over to drape himself across Margo’s much smaller frame. She pulled up his skirts, and pulled down his pretty lace panties, and while Quentin was watching this with widening eyes, spanked Todd’s ass. 

“One,” Todd said.

Quentin’s mouth went dry.

Margo looked up at Quentin then, and said, “Make sure you watch, Quentin. It’s partly your fault, after all.”

So Quentin watched as her small, strong hand hit Todd’s ass hard enough to leave red marks, and Todd counted each hit, and his ass was small but still jiggled with each blow, and Quentin felt hot and knew his face was red. It went on for what seemed like forever, Todd’s ass getting steadily redder, his words becoming slurred, and Quentin felt … really, unbelievably turned on. He couldn’t remember feeling this hot, this needy, and yet this was at least partly his fault, he was a terrible person for getting off on this. By the time Todd wheezed out “Twenty,” and Margo pulled up his panties and smoothed down his skirts, Quentin was sure he was next, and even more sure he deserved it.

But Margo dismissed them both, then, and Quentin found himself out in the hallway with a sweating Todd and his heart around his knees.

Todd seemed as cheerful as ever. “Whew, she’s got an arm on her,” he said, running one hand very gently over his skirts. 

“You’re not … mad?”

“What for?”

“Well, this was kind of my fault. I mean, you offered to help me practice and I got you punished.”

Todd shrugged. “It’s fine. Margo doesn’t hold a grudge. After your spanking, you’re right back in her good graces. So it’s no big deal. And anyway, she was right, I should’ve told you to stop.”

Quentin leaned against the wall, feeling almost like the world was spinning as his perspective realigned. “So, so the spanking is, what, better? Than not getting spanked?”

“Well, it’s better than her staying mad, you know?” Todd shrugged carelessly, and started down the hallway. After a moment, Quentin pushed himself off the wall and followed. Todd continued, “I guess I could’ve gone back into the rings, instead, but this way it’s over and done with. Lesson learned!”

Todd seemed like a very cheerful person, generally. Quentin didn’t quite understand this perspective, but he tried to wrap his head around it. “But I’m in the rings.”

“As training, not punishment,” Todd said reassuringly. “It’s totally different. Once you’re done, she’ll totally trust you to manage yourself.”

“Right,” Quentin said slowly, still wrapping his mind around this. “And the plug?”

“Oh, that’s more for your safety, really. Gotta stay stretched out! You know, some of us keep dildos in our rooms, and use those to get ready for clients. You can ask to give that method a try, instead, but I think the plugs are easier if you’re just starting out.”

Quentin imagined this, briefly, and his cock strained against the rings. He shook himself, as if to bodily shake off the image, and asked, “Can you help me with mine? I’ve had it in for a few hours, and I’ll need it out soon.”

“You don’t want Poppy to help?”

Quentin bumped his shoulder against Todd’s, gently. “What are friends for, right?”

Todd grinned brightly. “Right!”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot returns, and sees how Quentin's training has been going.

Eliot rode back into Fillory a week late, dusty and exhausted, but with the wagon, its gold, and Margo’s new banker and all her hopes for Fillory intact. Mayakovsky had complained for much of the trip, and Eliot was extremely glad to drop him and his woman off at the Loria so he could escort the wagon to its new home. After watching the gold until it was unloaded into its new vault, locked, and the new guard set to his first watch, Eliot finally made his way back to Whitespire.

Flinging open the saloon’s double doors, he immediately spotted Penny behind the bar, Kady standing near the stage, a few men drinking and a few others gambling.

Quentin was nowhere to be seen.

Frowning, Eliot went back to Margo’s office, hiding his limp until he got to the back halls. Knocking on her door, he poked his head in. “I’m back.”

Margo looked up from the papers on her desk, smiling warmly. “Eliot! How did it go?” As she spoke, she stood and came around the big desk to take both his hands in hers. 

“It went … poorly,” he admitted, sighing. She squeezed his hands, and he continued, “A snake spooked the horses, and they ran off with the wagon and broke the axle. We had to send for a new wagon, and then the rain hit.”

“You poor thing,” Margo cooed, leading him over to the velvet couch even though he was still covered in dust. “I was starting to get worried.”

Eliot smiled at her ruefully. “So was I. But we made it, safe and sound. Your gold is in the new vault.”

“Our gold,” she said firmly. Then she smiled. “There’s a surprise waiting in your room, I expect.”

“That reminds me,” Eliot said, “how did Quentin take to the training?”

“He’s an absolute dear,” Margo said, standing back up, “a natural. You might want a bath before you go up there. Just a thought.”

Eliot stood slowly and stretched, hands going to the small of his back. “That’s not a bad idea,” he conceded, seeing how much dust he’d left on the velvet. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize one of your girls.”

“See that you don’t,” she said playfully, and waved him on when he would have lingered. “Go on, I know you’ve both been waiting for this.”

Eliot tipped his hat to her, and then moseyed on to the bathing rooms. Margo kept a few tubs for the girls, and for customers who preferred to do their bathing at the whorehouse rather than over at the bath house. It was a better deal. At Margo’s, you could get two baths for a nickel and a discount on one of the girls. It was early for that kind of customer, though, and Eliot had the room to himself. 

Normally he might have lingered, but he was excited to see Quentin again, to see what he’d learned and make sure that Margo hadn’t been too rough on him. After a quick but thorough wash, Eliot pulled on one of the robes Margo kept for guests, dropped his dusty clothes in the laundry room, and carried his guns, gun belt and boots up to his room. He was wearing his hat, and when he kicked open his door, Quentin, sprawled across his bed, started up and stared at him like he was a stranger.

Eliot supposed he was, in truth, but it still hurt a little.

But it seemed that Quentin had been spending his time in corset and plug napping, and as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes and recognized Eliot, he smiled, a small, sweet smile, and levered himself up. “You’re back!”

“I sure am,” Eliot returned laconically, setting his things down on one of the dressers. Quentin got out of bed and rushed over to him, stopping just a couple of feet away as if unsure whether he should come any closer. Eliot looked Quentin up and down, noting how tightly the corset was laced, how his skirts fell around his slim legs, how his fingers fluttered about but didn’t touch anything. Eliot caught one of those fluttering hands, and examined Quentin’s fingers.

They were still crooked, though they seemed to be healing. Quentin bore the inspection quietly, though his face grew red the longer it went on. “How are these feeling?” Eliot asked, squeezing Quentin’s hand very gently.

“Not too bad,” Quentin said breathlessly. 

He was staring up at Eliot with shining dark eyes, and Eliot stroked one bare shoulder, pleased to note how smooth and satiny it was. Quentin shivered under his touch, and Eliot felt a stir of arousal. He stepped closer, and put a hand around Quentin’s waist to pull him closer. Quentin slotted against him perfectly, his head just coming up to Eliot’s chin. His eyes darkened as he was manhandled, and Eliot’s mouth slowly stretched into a smile. “How’s the training been?”

Quentin bit his lip, peering up at Eliot bashfully. His lips were full, and pink, and Eliot was really looking forward to kissing him. “It’s been, um, a lot,” Quentin said, not quite meeting Eliot’s gaze. “I think I’m doing well.”

Eliot tugged Quentin a little closer. “Want to test that out?”

“Yes, please,” Quentin breathed, and tipped his head back expectantly. 

Eliot fancied himself quite chivalrous, and he had no intention of keeping Quentin waiting. He gripped the back of Quentin’s neck and pulled him into a kiss. 

Quentin opened beneath him with a needy groan, throwing his arms around Eliot's neck to hang on him. Eliot licked into Quentin's mouth, grabbing his ass through the skirts to get him closer. Quentin whined, a sound that went straight to Eliot’s dick, and he wiggled in Eliot’s grasp needfully. Eliot kissed down Quentin’s jaw, and throat, and Quentin threw his head back with a gasp.

Eliot walked him backward toward his bed, and lowered Quentin down to the rumpled sheets. Quentin pushed himself further up the bed and Eliot crawled up onto the mattress after him, hands working at Quentin’s skirts. He pulled them down Quentin’s legs, running his hands over the smooth, satiny skin and crawling between them. Quentin’s cock was ringed in silver and bound nearly in half, the skin an angry red color, almost purplish in places, and Quentin’s hips were thrusting up into nothing with a small, contained desperation. “Shh, baby, I’ve got you,” Eliot said, unclipping the rings and letting Quentin’s cock spring erect. 

Quentin’s head fell back, his shoulders softening with the relief. “Eliot,” he breathed.

Quentin’s cock was a pretty little thing, flushing pink now and leaving damp spots as it bobbed over the lowest edge of his corset. Eliot had to close his eyes for a moment. He sucked in a breath, and said, “I’m going to fuck you.” Then he took Quentin’s straining cock into his mouth.

Quentin’s back arched as much as the corset allowed, his hips thrusting up into Eliot’s mouth, and Eliot sucked him down into his throat, pressing his nose into Quentin’s soft pubic hair. Quentin’s arms flailed across the mattress, his hips bucking without discipline or restraint. Eliot got his shoulders up over Quentin’s thighs, and used both hands to hold Quentin’s hips still as he sucked on Quentin’s cock. Quentin strained against him, whining, and Eliot pulled back to suck at just the head, pulling down the foreskin and pressing the flat of his tongue just below the glans, and when he swallowed Quentin back down, Quentin came with a shout.

Eliot swallowed, gentling his mouth. As Quentin’s whole body went lax, Eliot let his softening cock slip free, and started working at the butt plug. Quentin shifted his hips, seemingly trying to help but unable to contribute much. Eliot worked the plug side to side, stretching Quentin’s hole further, viscerally enjoying the sounds of Quentin’s every reaction. The long muscles in Quentin’s thighs twitched and jumped as Eliot worked the plug free. Quentin’s hole was a deeper pink than his lips, soft and pliable. Eliot pressed a finger in, feeling the soft, silky heat at Quentin’s core. 

Quentin sighed, his thighs falling open. Eliot got his elbows beneath Quentin’s knees, folding Quentin nearly in half. Quentin’s hands fluttered up, feather-light touches to Eliot’s hair, his cheek. Eliot caught the tip of one crooked finger in his mouth, sucking it very gently. Quentin’s eyes were big, his cock stiffening again where it was pressed against the flexing muscles of Eliot’s stomach. He looked so soft and so beautiful that Eliot had to kiss him.

Quentin bent easily beneath him, and his lips were soft and eager beneath Eliot’s touch. Eliot pressed just the head of his cock against Quentin’s entrance. Quentin whined into his mouth, hips shifting eagerly, and Eliot pressed inside. Quentin’s hole opened easily, as if welcoming him, and then Eliot was inside that clinging heat. 

Eliot pushed deeper. Quentin made a sound, small and hurt. Eliot held very still. The angle had become too awkward for kissing, so Eliot rubbed his bristly cheek against Quentin's smooth thigh, the side of his knee, pressing his lips to Quentin's satiny skin. Quentin breathed, his chest straining against the corset. Breathed again. He slowly relaxed around Eliot's cock, and after a few moments he grew restless, shifting beneath Eliot. “Are you going to, um. Do anything?” Quentin asked, his voice high and eager.

Eliot chuckled. Quentin squirmed beneath him, and Eliot thrust into him. Quentin gasped, threw his head back. “Please,” he breathed, “please.”

“What do you need?” Eliot asked, pausing to kiss the side of Quentin’s knee.

“Anything,” Quentin gasped, straining against the corset to move his hips, to arch his back. “Please, it’s so good, please.”

“Do you want me to touch you?” Eliot asked teasingly.

“Mmm, yes, oh god, yes,” Quentin babbled, trying to push up with his hips.

“Shh,” Eliot said, freezing in place. “Don't move, Q.”

“But -" Quentin protested, kicking one leg uselessly.

“Hold still, or I'll stop.”

Quentin whined, his full lower lip sticking out in an honest to God pout. It made Eliot grin, and he reached up to rub the pad of his thumb across that lip. Quentin quieted down, and when Eliot thrust again, he held position. “That’s so good, Quentin,” Eliot panted, fucking him open. “You’re doing so good.”

Quentin made a wordless sound of need, staring up at Eliot like he’d hung the moon. Eliot’s bad knee gave a sharp twinge, and he shifted on the bed. The new angle made penetration shallower, but hammered Quentin’s prostate, Eliot watching in delight as Quentin’s face tightened, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut, the struggle not to move in every line of him. “So good, you’re so good,” Eliot murmured, wanting to be closer, pressing Quentin nearly in half, Quentin straining to be still beneath him. “You’re doing so well, it’s okay, you can move.”

Quentin shuddered, hips working almost frantically with the sudden freedom, hands shifting unsteadily from Eliot’s hair to his shoulders, unable to get a grip anywhere. Eliot fucked into him, running a hand over the curves created by the corset, gripping the back of Quentin’s neck to pull him into a kiss, reaching up to tug on a handful of his hair. Quentin moaned at that, strained up, came again, come splattering Eliot’s belly and over Quentin’s corset. He clenched around Eliot, crying out, and Eliot coaxed him through it, murmuring, “That’s good, that’s so good, baby,” still fucking him through the rhythmic clenching until Quentin was shaking and gasping, his pretty pink cock barely softening as Eliot continued thrusting into him, come smearing between them in a satisfying mess. That’s what he’d wanted to see.

Eliot could go for hours. He wanted to. Quentin squirming beneath him, a few tears slipping from the corners of his squeezed-shut eyes as he became overstimulated. “Could you come again for me, sweet boy?” Eliot purred, slowing his thrusts slightly.

Quentin blinked his eyes open, he dark lashing clumping with moisture. “I don’t know,” he gasped, tossing his head against the pillow as Eliot shifted to brush against his prostate at a different angle. “Eliot, please, I don’t …”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to, sweet boy.” 

“I can, I can do it, I can,” Quentin gasped, his shoulders working strangely against the mattress. 

He was biting his lip, and Eliot leaned in and kissed it. “Don’t force it, Q, just come along for the ride.”

Quentin caught his eyes, and he tried to hold them, stilling. “Are you sure?” Quentin whispered. “I can, I can try, I want to …”

“What, sweetie?”

Quentin’s gaze wavered. “To, um, make sure it’s worth it.”

“Oh, you sweet thing.” Eliot had to kiss him for that. “You’re worth it. Already, you’re worth it.” You’re worth everything, he didn’t say.

“You’re sure?”

Eliot carded through Quentin’s hair, smiling at him. “I’m sure.”

Finally, Quentin relaxed. He melted back into the pillow, and Eliot fucked back into him, relishing every small twitch and shiver as Quentin mellowed into the feeling. Quentin gazed into his eyes, and Eliot smiled down at him, petted him, told him how good he felt, how good he was being. 

Eliot’s thighs tensed. Quentin was taking it so well, bitten lips red and wet, his eyes shining, Eliot could barely hold on. A few more thrusts and he was coming, moving weakly through it for just a little more sensation. Quentin clenched around him, and Eliot could only think that he was perfect, so perfect, and he wished he could do this forever. 

Finally he pulled out. Quentin made a small noise of discomfort, and Eliot smiled at that, too, thinking of his come filling Quentin like a marker of possession. Prompted by the thought, he slipped Quentin’s plug back in, and laid beside him on the pillow.

Still breathing heavily, he propped his head on one hand, the elbow braced on the mattress beneath him, and watched Quentin. Quentin was watching the ceiling, appearing nervous as arousal faded; he glanced over at Eliot a few times, and Eliot tried to look welcoming, but Quentin looked away again quickly.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Eliot asked, brushing a hand over Quentin’s arm.

Quentin glanced at him again. “Should I, uh, should I go?”

So that’s what was wrong. Eliot smiled. “Come here,” he said, and wrapped Quentin in his arms. Quentin went eagerly, and they dozed together as the afternoon wore into evening.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this might seem abrupt, but I've decided that it makes the most sense to think of this as the first major story arc. The second part will pick up after a time jump, and I'll fill in a couple of moments in between (like Quentin's first time with a real client) with standalone short entries.


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